


What Calamity, What Ruckus

by cinnamonsnaps



Series: Various Witcher fics [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Body Swap, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fake Marriage, M/M, Sensory Overload, jaskier rips a door off its hinges, kinda!!! kinda fake marriage kinda not, the sudden and startling presence of uncontrollable adrenaline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22677958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamonsnaps/pseuds/cinnamonsnaps
Summary: "The door slammed open. Jaskier felt himself grow faint. For the first time in his life, he was treated to the utterly unique and dislocating sensation of seeing his own dishevelled body barge into the room, legs collapsing under itself, a savage snarl on its face."I'm blind," not-Jaskier said, before it launched itself at him."After getting approached by a strange woman who claims she used to be her husband, Jaskier and Geralt investigate a small village cursed with a plague of bodyswapping.It isn't long until the inevitable happens.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Various Witcher fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675948
Comments: 281
Kudos: 931
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	1. The Village

**Author's Note:**

> hello pals and thanks for clicking!! basically, i'm new to the witcher but i fell head over heels for jaskier immediately. so. that's where i'm at. anyway this fic is about what would happen if you took a funky little twink and stuck him in a sheer mountain of muscle and said: "Go Buck Wild"

What a calamity, Jaskier thought, what a ruckus. A whole town curdling under the heel of some old woman in a barn. 

They'd scarcely been ten minutes on the road from their last job when the sound of someone running behind them made them pause. Geralt brought Roach to a halt, while Jaskier, almost instinctively, reached for his dagger strapped to his thigh. 

"Ho, witchman!" a voice called, in a broad accent. "Ho there!' 

"Witchman?" Jaskier said in disbelief, but Geralt didn't seem perturbed. 

"Some villages don't see a Witcher for a long time. Names change."

"Witchman!" the voice repeated, and a woman with very frizzy blonde hair almost crashed into Jaskier as she stumbled down a hill into their midst. "Wait, damn you, wait. Are you going?" 

"We  _ were _ ," Jaskier sniffed. It had been a sore point of contention between him and Geralt - Jaskier wanted to stay one more night, for his callused feet, but coin was getting low. When Geralt wanted to leave, there was no stopping him. 

"Then go, if you must, but there's good coin and bedding for ye both if ye come with me to the village." 

"What needs done?" Geralt asked, and she stared up at him with a wry twist to her mouth. Nervous, maybe, but not afraid. 

"What if I told you I was not born this woman?"

That made both of them pause, Jaskier's eyebrows shooting up. 

"I wasn't born a Witcher," Geralt countered, and the woman tossed her head back and laughed. 

"My name is Cezary, and I used to be my own husband. Come, come with me, now I say - wait, one moment."

She turned and peered at them and their identical, confused expressions, elaborating on nothing she had said, but giving them a look of pure scrutiny. 

"Neither of ye be..." she said, suspiciously, "settled, do ye? Married? With a partner? With each other?"

"No," Geralt said simply, while Jaskier spluttered and said some choked out nonsense about counting his paramours and his would-be brides off in other places. "Neither of us are wed."

"Good." She sprang forward, back up the hill, legs leaping through the tall summer grass. She was spry, around thirty maybe, and there was a thick atmosphere of urgency trailing after her. 

"Well!" Jaskier said, recovering from his coughing fit. "How odd. A lunatic, then, or a troubled woman nonetheless. We should be off, Geralt, no good comes from following strange women into the grass."

Geralt shot Jaskier a look, before turning Roach around. 

"You can't be serious."

"Something smelt strange, bard. My medallion... I have a feeling there's a story we're not being told here."

"Yes, and that story is that she's making things up to drag unsuspecting travellers into her bandit lair - wait! Wait, Geralt, damn you, wait-"

* * *

The village was small and peaceful, just out of the way enough that it got very few visitors, sheltered in a valley that seemed unperturbed by the rest of the world. Geralt and Jaskier were greeted with naked curiosity but none of the fear or infamy they were used to. It was as if nobody had ever heard of them before. 

Cezary had run ahead a little, turning every now and then to make sure they followed, her simple dress messy at the hem with grass stains. Jaskier, despite his words, didn't think she was mad. In truth, he didn't trust her one bit, but Geralt had always had a weakness for novelty. He knew that much after travelling with him on and off for so many years. 

"What's this?" the alderwoman of the village called, a dark woman with tight braids interwoven with fabric. She looked at the two of them with sharp eyes, the woman from earlier peeking over her shoulder. "A troubadour and a mercenary in our village?"

"A witcher and a bard," Jaskier said, bowing deeply to her. "Geralt of Rivia and the great poet Dandelion. At your service. We dispatch of deadly beasts, bring an end to the eldritch, slay the savage monster-"

"Be you lovers?" the alderwoman interrupted, and Jaskier's mouth closed with a snap. 

"No," Geralt said, yet again, electing to ignore that Jaskier was once more muttering under his breath. "Why is that important?" 

He wasn't answered. Cezary approached again, bringing a man with her this time, her hand around his wrist. 

"If I tell you this man used to be Marie, what would you say?" 

"I used to be a Julian," Jaskier volunteered, and was ignored. 

"And now look. I am Marie, he is Cezary. But not quite. We came together on our wedding night, and when we awoke... we were in each other's bodies."

Geralt made a short "hm" noise. 

"Not like that!" the man interrupted, looking mortified. "As in... I used to be in that body. I was Marie, I had her skin, her hair, that body. I married a man named Cezary - who had this body, this voice. When we awoke... we had switched our minds somehow. Completely switched." 

Cezary nodded, her hair bobbing. "And so I become my own wife, and Marie becomes her own husband. For those who are not us, it may be confusing, but we decided to keep our original names. The rest of it matters little to us, and to be sure, I wouldn't chase after a witchman to fix it for coin we don't have-"

"But it happened again," Geralt finished, and Marie nodded this time, his gentle face turned contrite. 

"Yes. A few times. Only to newly wed couples, and most just... moved on. Accepted it like we did, as strange as that sounds. I suppose a good marriage works like that, knowing the other person as well as you know yourself. Until we had another wedding. And the couple..."

"Yes?" 

"They did something stupid." Cezary's face crumpled into distaste. "Sought out a wizard and subjected themselves to an experiment. Passed away, the fools." 

Geralt looked displeased. Jaskier knew he had little patience for wizards at the best of times, and the idea of dealing with one now was less than ideal. 

"Any idea of the cause?"

"There's a woman," the alderwoman interrupted, face pinched. "Old. Older than anyone else. We kept her in an old cottage out of the way. Every time we draw near, she threatens to pox us and bring rains of plague on our fields."

"Has she?" 

"Once. Fish, rotten and poisonous, fell from the sky right into old Horace's cabbage patch. That was after we tried to get someone to fix her roof for winter." 

Jaskier made a thoughtful sound. The village population had drawn around them in a curious crowd, and he found his gaze swapping from person to person. It was hard to tell which people had been swapped and which hadn't. 

"Alright," Geralt grunted, and came forward to shake the alderwoman's hand. "We will talk to the old woman. If it is the spell I think, it should be simple to reverse, and your couples will be back in their own bodies again." 

"Blessed to hear it. Leave your horse with Cezary - we will look after her. Consider it a little prepayment." The alderwoman quickly gave the directions to the woman's cottage to Geralt, and Jaskier took one last long look around the sleepy village and its few rather gormless inhabitants, and shuddered. He was glad when they set off immediately. 

* * *

"So," Jaskier said, in between humming amiably as they walked. The path to the cottage was pleasant, cutting through green trees that formed a gentle tunnel against the midsummer sun. "Swapped bodies. How unfortunate. I can scarce imagine the horror of waking up and finding I'm stuck in some poor woman's body. And she in mine! Yes, she would be worse off there, I think. I have a funny knee and bad circulation. I don't know how all these couples can be so calm about it." 

Geralt said nothing, seemingly lost in thought. 

"Not sure anyone in that village has the capability to be angry," Jaskier continued anyway. "They all seemed a little empty behind the eyes. You've brought us to a village full of provincial gommerels, Geralt, and we're going to get cannibalised in our sleep as part of their strange, country rituals."

Jaskier waited for a response, but none came. 

"Well, at least we aren't married," he said, before amending, "to anyone, I mean, not each other, mercy me. What a bedevilled thing to say to a man and his bard. Besides, married life isn't for me. I like to sample and taste whatever fate brings me far too much. A wife would only get mad at me all the time, and for good reason. And anyway... I don't have time to settle down. You keep me far too busy." His mouth twitched into a fond smile. "What a noble sacrifice I've made, to keep you company." 

"Someone's following us," Geralt said suddenly, and then, "don't look, Jaskier, they don't know we know. Let's keep walking and see if they reveal themselves."

"A villager?" 

"I think so. They're trying to hide in the trees." 

"Hm. I told you. Cannibals." 

Before they could finish the conversation, the path opened out into a clearing. At the furthest end was a very dilapidated old cottage. The roof had fallen in, and ivy had grown over the walls and formed a natural green blanket. Only the chimney poked out the top, clear of greenery. 

"Hello?" Jaskier called. Nobody answered. "Perhaps she's not in."

Geralt approached the cottage, steps quiet on the forest floor. He sniffed, once, twice. 

"Not a monster." 

"Oh, good. Just a weird old woman. Perhaps we should just leave her be."

"There's something here. Something to do with the spell affecting the village." 

"Get out," a sharp voice called from inside the cottage. "Get away!" 

Geralt did not get away. Instead, he slowly let himself into the cottage garden, walking up to the front door which hung off its hinges. 

There was a blast of wind. Jaskier was forced back a few steps, yelping with shock. 

"Geralt! Let's leave her be. Surely a bit of body confusion is fine every now and then!" 

"Reveal yourself," Geralt called out. There was no answer. No answer, until suddenly, a force hit Jaskier much harder than the wind, throwing him backwards into a tree. 

"Ger- oof!" 

Geralt whirled round, looking for a source but seeing none. 

"Oh, that hurts. Listen. I'm going. You have fun," Jaskier was grumbling, his voice strained with exertion, "with this strange woman, settle down and have a brew together, gossip like old maids, and I'll be in the village avoiding ending up in someone's pie." 

"Go," the voice rumbled, and something rose, invisible, a force that curled leaves, made the leafmold rise and float, a warm wind that curled around Jaskier and Geralt, befuddling their senses and filling Jaskier's nose with the smell of ozone. "Now!" 

Jaskier was slowly suffocating, he realised. He drew in a deep breath, but it was empty. Panicking, he looked over at Geralt, who was scrabbling in his bag for something, his movements sluggish somehow. It was terrifying to see from the honed witcher. 

Well, if this was how he went, this was how he went. Dimly, as his vision spotted, he realised just how much he had taken Geralt for granted. Even now, helpless and ignored, his brain was chanting one idle, screaming thing on loop: Geralt will save me. Geralt is here. Geralt is here, and he has me safe. 

There were twin thumps as they collapsed. 


	2. His Own Body

"They said they weren't married!" 

"They must have lied. Or perhaps they only passed out."

Loud. The whispered conversation was loud in Jaskier's ears, as if the participants were yelling at him. Noise. There was noise from every direction, of every kind, blurring into an indecipherable static. The creak of wood, the soft bellow sound of several people breathing somehow so loud and obvious, chatter from people outside, the rustle of clothes, and there too, a slow thump, thump, ringing in his ears. He dimly realised it was his own heartbeat. 

Suddenly, he remembered the last thing he had seen, his breath rushing into him with a too loud, too harsh intake that surely wasn't healthy. 

"The witchman's awake!" 

Witchman? Geralt was here? He must have passed out too. Was he safe? Was he injured? 

Alert, worried, Jaskier opened his eyes - and hissed. Bright. It was far, far too bright, giving him a sharp pain right behind the eyes when he tried to look around. Squinting, he blinked and groaned, trying to get adjusted - and somehow not being able to.

"What in the name of sweet Melitele," he said, blasphemy be damned, and the sound of his own voice startled him. It sounded different. Deep. Rough. Familiar. 

"Witchman! Lie down, you've been ill."

His chest was pushed down again, but Jaskier found that he could resist easily, sitting up and half covering his eyes. 

"Where's Geralt?" 

There was a pregnant silence. 

"Ah," said a voice. Cezary. She was here. "So. They did lie, after all." 

Something was wrong. Something was deeply, truly wrong. Jaskier heard that thump in his ears pick up suddenly, faster and faster, into dangerously fast territory. 

He'd only had a panic attack once in his life - over, strangely, a mysterious spider bite he was convinced was poisonous when it wasn't at all - so he was vaguely familiar with the sudden rush of adrenaline, the pouring of sweat, the unstoppable feeling of dread and dismay, convinced he was about to suffer some terrible harm. His own body usually didn't react like this. It was calm. Languid. Well cultivated. 

His own body. 

Despite the pain, Jaskier cracked one eye open and forced himself to look down at his body. It was wide shouldered. It was large, making the soft bed look disproportionately small. There was white hair tickling the borders of his vision. 

"Please calm, sir, calm, you're safe now-"

"Calm?" Jaskier choked, trying to get off the bed but tangling in the sheets, "calm? You want me to calm down, you blabbering twit - you-" 

No use getting mad, but gods, when Jaskier got mad, it was so very very difficult to calm down again. Geralt had called him an idiot for it before - picking fights with men twice his size and not leaving off, like a fool. Like a terrier. 

But he could try. And try he did, willing himself to take a deep breath, forcing his mind to go to that pleasant place he dreamed of, a warm beach, a pretty woman with a tempting smile, a hand full of a cold, sweet drink...

And suddenly, he was calm. No, not calm. Cold. It was as if he had been plunged into an ice bath, stillness trickling down each of his limbs, his mind sharpening - still angry, still furious - but cold. His eyes flew open, and there was the strange, sickening feeling of doing something consciously which had never been done before, and the room's brightness was suddenly... bearable. 

Jaskier felt the deadly cold calmness behind his eyes. Somehow, it was worse than apoplectic rage. 

A stench hit his nostrils. It was like sweat, but more acrid, more strong. Cezary and the barkeep were watching him, hands out placatingly across the bed, having given no indication they could smell the terrible stench assaulting his nose. 

"Good," they said, and how could it be that they spoke so calmly and deliberately, but it felt like someone smashing wood right by his ear? "Calm, Sir Dandelion. Your body is in the next room."

Jaskier tipped himself out of bed, marvelling only shortly at his new body. Geralt's body. He knew these trousers anywhere. 

"We switched," he said faintly, in the wrong voice. "How can we - we switched!" 

"Yes," the barkeep said, and Jaskier had never seen anyone look as afraid as he did when Jaskier pulled himself up to his - Geralt's - full height and width. "You did. We're sorry, we. We don't understand either." 

Jaskier took a moment to process. His brain felt so sharp, so clear, putting everything together, working at his command. And, god, there was so much to command, so many things demanding his attention, like his heart rate, his adrenaline, his eyes, everything - and yet he could filter it out with ease. 

Aside from the smell. 

"Don't you smell that?" he said, wrinkling his nose with disgust, voice flatter than it should have been. "It's... it's like, a sweaty horse. It's rank. It's - oh, it's getting stronger-" 

The door slammed open. Jaskier felt himself grow faint. For the first time in his life, he was treated to the utterly unique and dislocating sensation of seeing his own dishevelled body barge into the room, legs collapsing under itself, a savage snarl on its face. Sweat stuck its hair to its face. There was a strange constant hum coming from its throat. 

"I'm blind," not-Jaskier said, and Jaskier leant away with disgust. The smell was overpowering now, and the voice his body had used was... one he hadn't heard since he was a rabid teenager, fighting with his father. It was his rage voice. "I'm blind," it said again, voice creaking with emphasis, before it launched itself at Jaskier. 

Jaskier normally wouldn't have been quick enough to block. His reflexed were average at best. And yet, as if time were slowed, he found he had plenty of time to hold up his arms and protect his face in an instinct he didn't know he had. 

Still, the force was enough to take him by surprise and fling him backwards onto the bed, not-Jaskier landing on his chest. 

"What is this," it said, pulling at Jaskier's hair sharply. "I can't smell you. Can't hear anything. What are you." 

"Geralt?" Jaskier said, cautiously, and not-Jaskier froze. 

"We swapped," it - he, Geralt - said, as if it just occurred to him. "That's my body."

"Geralt, calm down," Jaskier said nervously, but Geralt didn't calm down. Well, he'd always been contrarian, but now it was more like a reaction than a choice. With a jolt, he realised what the stench was, and gasped. 

Fear. It was the smell of fear, and it was rolling off Geralt in thick waves. So, he wondered distantly, is this what Geralt smelt every time Jaskier was afraid?

"I can't turn it off," Geralt growled, though it was high and less threatening in Jaskier's alto tenor. 

"It's okay," Jaskier said, hands flying up uselessly to - well, who knew, to massage his own back but not his own back, to do up his own doublet, to wipe back his own sweaty hair? This was inconceivable. He had no idea what to do. "Breathe deep."

Geralt made Jaskier's face look wild. Jaskier himself was a scrapper, a taunter at heart, but he was sure he'd never looked like this. Never this animalistic. Never this feral.  But... but whatever was happening, Geralt seemed to listen. He took a deep breath, Jaskier tapping out a rhythm slowly on his shoulder. Breathe in. Breathe out. 

"Witchman," Cezary said, sounding guilty, "you've swapped bodies. I wish not to alarm ye, but it is what it is. We would never have sent you there had we known you two were a couple."

"But we're not," Jaskier said, turning to look at her with a confused crumple in his brow that had probably never graced Geralt's expression before. "Why would you think that?"

Cezary looked pointedly between Geralt, who was still lying on top of Jaskier and apparently having some kind of crisis, and Jaskier's hand rubbing soft circles into his own crimson doublet. 

"We're a small town, but this spell has opened our eyes to the various complexities of courtship. Worry ye not, we won't run you through for love."

"Love-!" Jaskier spluttered, but Geralt was finally resurfacing, each word slightly too loud in his new mouth. 

"The curse that's affecting people must be along different lines than marriage."

"A curse, then, not a spell?"

"They're two sides of the same coin." Jaskier helped Geralt stand up again, listening in awe at his own voice sounding so - so serious, so commanding. Did he really sound like that, though? Was he so wheedling and whiny? Surely not. 

"And you break spells?"

Geralt paused, and his expression was dark. "Not being in my body brings complications."

"I imagine. Come, Horvo, let's leave them for a moment to adjust. Rest, Sir Dandelion, Sir Witchman. We'll bring you some food soon, but rest first. The swap is always tiring."

With that, Cezary and the barkeep - who was, evidently, called Horvo - left, and Jaskier and Geralt were left sitting quietly together on the bed. 

"Well, blast me down and bugger me with a troll's club," Jaskier said, with great feeling. "What a mess."  He covered his eyes again. He couldn't get it right, couldn't work out what was correct, and the room was beginning to get too bright again.  "We can't stay like this," he said, and Geralt answered, 

"We're weak like this."

"It's not weak!" Jaskier protested, shooting his old, familiar body a look. It didn't look weak, but maybe that was because he was used to it. Slim, maybe, but not wasting away, not entirely without muscles and bulk. "It packs a punch! You're just... I'm just a big wall of muscle now." Jaskier paused as a thought occurred to him. "Oh. I could probably rip someone in _half_."

"Don't," Geralt hissed, hand flying to catch on Jaskier's wrist - and how strange it was, to be stronger for once, to feel totally able to pull away. Jaskier didn't pull away. "Don't do anything stupid."

He sounded so angry. Jaskier recognised that tone of voice. It was his own, after all, usually the one he had when he was under a lot of strain for a very long time. 

"Fuck," he said, and laughed, because it was indistinguishable from every time Geralt had said it in the past. "I do hope we're not stuck."

Geralt was twitching, his face writhing with something complicated. "I can't turn it off."

"What? Turn what off?"

"The adrenal response. I can't calm down."

"That's... you realise that that's normal, right? Being angry is normal. Go punch a wall." Jaskier couldn't help the sardonic, helpless sarcasm in his voice. "Not too hard! You might break one of my delicate fingers." 

As if compelled, Geralt stood up and immediately punched a wall so hard the wood shook. 

"Geralt!" Jaskier yelped, standing up as well and grabbing his elbow before he could go for a second blow. "I wasn't serious!" 

"Didn't work," Geralt grunted. His teeth were clearly clenched. "Feels like a fever." 

"I know. I know." Quietly, quickly, he put his hand back on Geralt's shoulder, massaging gently. "Can I just say? Being able to calm down at will is horrifying."

"We need to switch back as soon as possible." Geralt was straightened up now, massaging his hand with a grimace, his eyebrows furrowed. Once more, it was strange and unsettling to watch his body move like it never had before, slow and deliberate, each movement the absolute minimum needed. "If something attacks us, we're useless."

Jaskier blinked. "Geralt, I'm the size of a large wardrobe."

"But you don't know how to use it." Geralt shot him a look. 

"I can guess! But I agree. It's uncomfortable like this." Jaskier shielded his own eyes, was tempted to plug his ears. "Everything is... just a little too much, it's like I'm hungover - gods, Geralt, is this what it's like for you all the time? No wonder you're grumpy." 

Geralt ignored him.

"Let's go and find that old woman again and give her what for," Jaskier continued, poking his new body thoughtfully and getting distracted by his own biceps. "Gods, I'm big." 

"Don't do anything stupid," Geralt repeated, fire in his new blue eyes, and Jaskier humbly sat on his own hands. 

"I'll try," he said, petulantly, and Geralt visibly winced at hearing his voice say the words. "Let's go then."


	3. Witch-man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey pals what is UP   
> let me know what you're thinking so far! this is so fun to write i'm having a blast  
> anyway in this chapter: jaskier hulks out and terrifies the vicinity for the first time in his life

Jaskier did something stupid. 

Now, in honesty, it wasn't all his fault. He was trying out a new body. Something was bound to happen, really, and he didn't see why he should be held responsible. 

They formulated a plan quickly - go downstairs and explore the village, find some other swapped couples and ask their story, meander around to the old woman - and Geralt seemed ready and raring to go. Jaskier had never seen his own body so still. He was always fidgeting with something, be it his lute, or his pockets, or some flower he plucked at the roadside, but Geralt held himself so statue-esque that he looked like he was asleep with his eyes open. 

"You can fidget, you know," Jaskier teased him as they went downstairs. "In fact, I encourage it, otherwise you'll get bored and not pay attention to what people are saying."

"I won't."

"You will. And, besides, people get unnerved when they see someone so still-"

He misjudged his strength. The door to the inn was old and heavy, and Jaskier, in his old body, would have struggled to push it open. 

In his new body, he slammed it so hard it flew off its old, rusty hinges. 

"What in the blazes-!" Horvo called, running from where he had been brushing the hay across the floor. "What do you think you're playing at!" 

"Jaskier," Geralt bit, furious, but Jaskier was just staring at the empty doorframe with wide eyes. 

"Did I do that?" 

"Did you - did you do that, you oaf!" Horvo stepped up, jabbing a sharp hand into Jaskier's chest. It hurt. "Who do you think is going to fix that then, you-" 

Geralt stepped in front of Jaskier, eyes flat, mouth open to negotiate something about the pay, surely, when something remarkable happened. 

Usually, when Geralt stepped in, that was that. People took one look at him and suddenly rearranged their priorities. But Horvo looked at him, snorted, and then pushed him aside to keep yelling at Jaskier. 

It was worth it for the expression on Geralt's face, Jaskier thought, holding back a shocked laugh. He looked so _affronted._

"Well?" said the barkeep, finally looking up at Jaskier's face, and Jaskier tried to look apologetic. 

"I'm not used to my own strength," he said cheerfully, though in Geralt's voice it came out woefully sardonic. He flexed his arms a few times, visible and obvious despite being crossed, to illustrate his point. The barkeep gulped. "Don't know what I'll smash if I'm not careful."

"Is that a- is that a threat," the barkeep said, and Jaskier blinked, nonplussed. It hadn't been. 

"No? I'm just saying that I haven't quite got a grip on my newfound skills yet. I wouldn't want any more harm to befall your charming tavern."

The barkeep had turned white as a sheet, mouth gaping, and Jaskier couldn't work out what was going wrong. Usually, people didn't gasp like a fish when he apologised for breaking something. 

"We'll pay for it," Geralt snapped, inserting himself back into the conversation. "Out of what’s due."

“See you do,” the barkeep answered, clearly less intimidated by him, but sending nervous glances up to Jaskier. “It’s my job. It’s honest work.”

Geralt was already walking away, so Jaskier contented himself with a friendly nod - the barkeep blanched again - before hurrying after him. 

“How many times have you tried to be jovial but it’s misinterpreted as a threat?”

“Not many,” Geralt answered. 

“Because you stopped trying?”

Geralt didn’t answer. He was too busy walking ahead, making use of Jaskier’s long legs to outstride him. Jaskier realised that he could smell Geralt long after he should have been able to, a heady whirl of sweat, the fear-smell, and somehow, rather pleasantly, the flowery scents of his various pomades and colognes. 

"Oh," he said, mouth sloping into a pleased smile. "So you  _ can _ tell when I try a new scent. Why did you tell me you couldn't?"

Geralt just grumbled something from up ahead, which Jaskier interpreted as "I think you smell positively delightful all the time". Probably. Maybe not. 

"Stop scowling, you'll give me wrinkles," he joked, wincing as his eyes once again struggled to adjust to the summer light. "As will I if I don't stop squinting. Geralt, why is everything so bright? I can barely see. Are you nocturnally sighted only?" 

"You have to manually adjust your pupils," Geralt said, flicking his blue eyes back, and Jaskier squinted at him for a second. 

"Manually adjust - Geralt, you make it sound like a strange clock I haven't set up yet. Normal humans can't dilate their pupils at will. It's... I just don't know how to do that. Which muscle to use." 

They stopped outside what appeared to be a blacksmith's, and Jaskier caught sight of himself in a polished metal bowl. Yes, he was Geralt, no use denying it. That square jaw, those golden eyes, caught in an unflattering squint that made him look like he was exceedingly pissed off. But he couldn't help but smile, and that was where the face changed significantly. Geralt didn't smile like this, carefree and bubbly, teeth out, cheeks almost dimpling with pleasure. He tried a few more faces, utterly entranced. He wanted to burn all of them into his memory. Geralt winking coquettishly. Geralt looking coy but inviting. Geralt sticking his tongue out and making a face-

"Stop that," Geralt said, his tiny - puny! miniscule! - hand coming to pull Jaskier by the ear away from the bowl. "You're making me look like a fool." 

Jaskier considered being a shithead and staying where he was, but he let Geralt pull his ear anyway, smirking at the action, and - oh. Oh, oh wow. He thought he understood something very important. It felt rather nice to deliberately let someone so small and weak manhandle him around, knowing perfectly well he could snap Geralt's current body like a twig. 

Rather pleased at the revelation, Jaskier hummed with interest, but before he could vocalise his thoughts, Geralt was knocking on the smithy door. 

A rather wide man with the most enormous arms greeted them. Jaskier noted that he appeared to be wearing a very practical but very well fitted black dress under the smithy leathers that protected his skin. 

"Can I help you gentlemen?" he asked, taking off his gloves. Both Jaskier and Geralt spotted the wedding ring.

"I understand this village has a strange ailment," Geralt began. "I was wondering if you could point us to anyone who would answer some questions about it."

"You're referring to the bodyswapping, right?" the blacksmith asked with a wry grin. "Lucky. Come in, I just put tea on to boil."

It smelled delicious and overwhelming inside to Jaskier's new nose, though the low light was a welcome change. Smoke, coal, and through all that, the strangely pleasant smell of a home well lived in. He could even smell the leaves brewing in the large copper kettle nearby. 

"You seem to know something we don't," Geralt pressed, and the blacksmith nodded. 

"I was one of the first, me and my husband. After Cezary and Marie. I like talking about it, sometimes, but he doesn't. Let me fetch you both cups before I begin."

After he bustled off, Jaskier tried to settle comfortably and wait, but there was a bit of metal clanging relentlessly nearby and it was driving him wild in the way that small, repetitive noises might do, except louder than usual and so  _ unignorable _ . Geralt was still, taking a seat on a small leather stool with a dignified air that looked so forced that Jaskier would have laughed, if he wasn’t grinding his teeth with discomfort. The smell of tea and sulphur was overwhelming. His head ached, suddenly, and it settled right between his ears like someone was grinding a pumice stone there. 

The walls were too close together and the roof too small. He felt like a dog in a cage.

“I’m too hot,” he announced, “and not very thirsty. I’ll wait outside.”

There was a flash of something on Geralt’s face - he wasn’t sure what, he’d never watched himself in a mirror and memorised the difference between panic, concern or annoyance - but Jaskier was already leaving. 

* * *

It wasn’t cold out, but that didn’t matter. His skin had a cold sweat running over it, somehow feverish and clammy at the same time. Ostensibly, he should be feeling rather negative about the whole situation, but when he probed his thoughts it was all a bit... foggy. Strange. Normally he knew _ exactly  _ how he felt about things. 

For example: meeting Geralt for the first time had made him excited and also horny. Easy. Playing in front of a crowd? Nervous, but in an addictive way, adrenaline threading through him like a fine shot of something illegal. And also horny. Easy. Seeing Geralt almost get killed fighting some big monster with too many teeth and acidic poison dripping from its acrid mouth? Pants-wettingly terrified, cold and fearful, primally geared to run and panic, and also horny. He was very in tune with his emotions, assessing them and tugging at them like he would his lute strings, accepting every flat note and surprise melody with pleasure and voracity. 

This lack of definition was making him queasy. It was like a song with no tune.

A distraction! He decided with a clap, wincing when it was too loud, too bright, too much. A distraction. 

A small pebble hit him out of nowhere right on the arm, bouncing off harmlessly, and at first he frowned and looked around for an assailant - but there was no such thing. Instead, there was a small child watching him warily across the way, half hiding behind a willow fence. Jaskier beamed at it, and it startled like a deer. 

“Hey! Did you see who threw that?” he called, but the child didn’t answer. (No wonder. Geralt’s voice made it sound so...  _ angry) _ . It could have been a boy or a girl, they were covered in so much dirt. Their clothes were well-cared for, though, so Jaskier concluded that they were just the type of child who started the day clean and ended it looking as if they’d swam through a bog.

Maybe they had. 

“I’m going to assume it wasn’t you. Now, are your parents in?” he asked amiably, strolling over and peering at the house behind the child. Well, he may as well do his own investigations. “Any interesting stories to tell about switching souls?”

The kid backed up until they hit the cottage wall, and Jaskier realised with an unhappy jolt that they were terrified. 

“Ah,” he said, at a loss. Usually, children loved his bright clothes and his songs. He had to gently ward them off when their parents sometimes decided he was an excellent babysitter while they drank at the bar. He wasn’t _good_ with them, the gods knew he would probably never be a fantastic father figure, but he certainly never _scared_ them. “Hm. Listen, I know I look big and scary, but I don’t know enough hand to hand combat to take you down if it came to a fight.”

Quick as a flash, the child brought their hand up and threw another pebble, and this time it whacked right off his forehead. Jaskier realised that his joke hadn’t landed.

“Ow-” he said, with feeling, but the child was screaming at the top of its lungs: 

“Ma!  _ Maaaa _ !”

In seconds, a woman in a jerkin and baggy trousers was running out, asking exasperatedly if that nasty boy Marvin was back - before freezing when she saw Jaskier. 

Ah. With another, unhappier jolt, Jaskier realised she looked terrified too. She sharply grabbed the child and placed it behind her, giving him the wild eyes he’d only ever seen directed at - 

At Geralt. Of course. 

“What did he do,” she asked the child, who was too busy wailing its head off. Jaskier raised his hands placatingly, and she flinched. 

“Nothing. I was just standing around and it just started throwing pebbles at me-”

The woman’s eyes flickered endlessly. “And what?” she spat, trembling. “You came to hurt her? Punish her?”

Jaskier gaped. “Came to  _ what  _ now?”

“I don’t know who you are or what you be, but sir, I will scream and bring this whole village down upon you if you touch my child.”

Jaskier blinked, feeling lost and hurt, before taking several steps back. “This is very unfair. She’s the one who started pelting me with stones. Besides, I wasn’t going to harm her, don’t be delusional!”

“Delusional?” she spat, and her face was thunderous. “We know of things that come into the valley pretending to be human, wearing our skin. But your eyes give you away, monster.” 

“I’m not a monster.” Jaskier couldn’t help but be blunt with surprise. “I’m a witcher! We _ kill _ monsters!”

“What’s the difference? Our alderwoman may not have remembered the stories, but I do,  _ witchman. _ ” She bit it like a slur, and Jaskier heard it for what it was now: not a silly antique name for a witcher, but a description. A witch-man, not human, but something other. “Leave.”

“I’m - we’re trying to break the curse-”

“Leave!” she bellowed, with all the force and rage of a flood, and Jaskier’s sensitive ears rang. He stepped backwards, one leg at a time, until he was back into the relative dark and quiet of the blacksmith once more. 


	4. Lone Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love writing dumb npc dialogue so very much, can you tell?

Geralt breathed easier once Jaskier left the smithy. It was the fidgeting. He’d grown used to it when Jaskier was Jaskier, his thin and colourful body flickering like a bobbing flower in the corners of his vision, humming and playing arpeggios and babbling about nothing at all. 

It was different when the body was a black and white wall making sudden, unexpected movements. It put him on edge, and this body was a knife-edge away from panic at all time. A sudden noise and his heartrate would rocket. Tugging Jaskier away from the metal bowl had made his hands sweaty, of all things. It was an uncontrollable mess, rabbit-fast and nervous. He hated it. 

And it was so responsive. Sweaty in the heat. Wanting to jerk and shutter at the slightest provocation. Gods, he missed his body and how he could fine tune it down to the very beat of his heart. 

The blacksmith bought the tea, and Geralt couldn’t help but grimace in frustration when he couldn’t even tell what type of tea it was. This weak, weak human nose, which was overloaded with the smoke smell like a panicking animal running away from a forest fire, was missing out on all the important details like which leaves were boiling, the age of the leather he was sitting on, which soap Jaskier used, blinding him in ways he forgot he hated. It was a sense he no longer had. It was like having two cotton wads shoved up his nostrils, blocking all smell. 

“Where’s your companion?,” the blacksmith asked as he poured tea carefully into mugs. Geralt couldn’t help but note that he seemed slightly more relaxed, somehow. 

“It was too hot,” he said, repeating what Jaskier had told him. “He’ll be waiting outside.”

“The forge doesn’t help,” the blacksmith agreed, handing him a hot mug, “but the tea will. You look uncomfortable enough yourself, excuse my bluntness.”

Did he? He felt his own forehead, and found it sweaty. Urgh. No control there, either. “Hm.”

“My name is Anan, my friend. Now you’re comfortable and sitting down, and hopefully cooling off, tell me about what brings you here, though I think I have an idea already.”

“And what idea is that?”

“Our inexplicable and very specific malady, where we find ourselves thrust into bodies that aren’t our own. The fact you’re here gives me hope. We haven’t had a witchman pass through for generations now.”

“Then you’re lucky to be free of monsters.” Very lucky. “Don’t you have any creatures causing trouble?”

“Oh, pixies, sprites, will o'the wisps, you name them and they’re bothering the poor members of this village somehow. Brownies spoil our milk and fairies wilt our flowerbeds, if you believe every story you hear. But nothing that warrants a sellsword.”

Geralt shook his head. “Not a sellsword. I only handle monsters, not humans.”

“And yet, here you are in our peaceful little village where no monsters are.”

“The old woman in the cottage,” Geralt pointed out, bringing the tea close enough for his nose to smell it properly. The tip of his nose got wet. “They tell me she’s behind this.”

“They always blame the little old woman first,” Anan replied with a wry voice. “Perhaps she’s some kind of old hag having her fun with us. Or perhaps she’s just an old biddy with a run down cottage, and instead, it’s something in the water.”

“If it’s an old woman I will let the village decide what to do.” Geralt shifted on his seat, tasting the tea. It was fine. Too hot. “My main concern is getting my body back.”

The blacksmith’s eyes twinkled. “Ah. I suspected, but I wasn’t sure.”

“We’re not husbands.”

“No?”

“No.”

Anan waited, but Geralt did not elaborate. With a sigh, he gestured round the forge. “I wasn’t a blacksmith before. I was quite a comely woman, which I say only because I spent so long looking at myself from an outsider’s perspective afterwards. I had to learn the craft from scratch. No longer could I sit inside, sewing and gossiping and looking splendid. My husband got my body, and when he realised just how much fun it is to be a pretty woman, he left.” Outside, dimly, as if three streets away, a child started crying. “Friend, if you find a way to undo this charm, will he and I swap once again?”

Geralt paused. There was something unnerving him about the crying. “It depends on what charmed you.”

“I see.” They locked eyes. There was unease in the blacksmith’s expression, but contentment too, as if already prepared for the outcome either way. Behind the roughness of a face exposed to the heat of the forge, behind the soot, were very familiar eyes indeed - Geralt had seen many variations on them upon his travels. They were the eyes of a very beautiful woman indeed.

The moment was shattered by a hoarse yell, and Geralt stood automatically. 

“Jaskier,” he said on instinct, and started running to the door - just as his own huge body tumbled inside. Golden eyes pinned his, wide with shock and hurt. It was so difficult now to smell if he was hurt, no sign of the bitter iron smell of human blood, none of his fear-stench curling from his skin. Of course, it was Geralt’s body. It wouldn’t smell like a human anyway. 

“You’ve got to explain to her,” Jaskier was saying in his voice which tried to sound casual, but was rather frantic in reality, “that I didn’t _do_ anything, and I’m certainly _not_ a monster! Wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“Who?” Geralt asked. He was used to Jaskier coming to him for help, of course - he’d had to chase off more than one angry spouse before - but this was different. 

“The woman! Outside! She accused me of trying to steal her child!”

Anan gasped. “Did you?”

“No,” Geralt answered for him, swift and sharp. His tone turned to resignation. “It happens. Less now, but it happens.”

“It happens?” Jaskier spat. “It shouldn’t! You’re a hero! You wouldn’t do something like that!”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt said amiably, before turning back to the blacksmith. “I was told of a couple who died trying to switch back. Do you remember the name of the wizard?”

“Oh, mercy, no,” Anan replied, giving Jaskier concerned looks. “Last I knew, there was a rumour of a wizard out in the old stoneloft. But he must be long gone now.”

“Thank you.” Geralt inclined his head finished his tea in a long gulp, and turned to Jaskier, who had calmed down only slightly. “We should go back to the cottage.”

“Alright,” Jaskier was saying vaguely, face still set with discomfort. “Alright. The cottage. I miss my body already.”

* * *

Geralt could see the woman watching them from her window as they left. It was an expression he was familiar with, though usually it was directed at him and not his companion. It was hard to imagine anyone looking at Jaskier of all people with fear and loathing. The man was about as threatening as a stray dog, even when he was whipped up into one of his strange furies and refused to back down from a fight, usually after more ale than was advisable. Sometimes not, though, and those furies were strangest of all. 

“Stop glaring at her,” he snapped, and Jaskier jolted guiltily. 

“But it’s not fair. You don’t look as beastly as all that. Is it always like this?”

“When you’re not around, sometimes.” Jaskier did help, very much so, when his reputation as a butcher outweighed his prowess. People couldn’t be scared of a witcher if he had a silly little troubadour hanging off his arm, not really. 

“Awful. Remind me never to leave your side again.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. It was jokes like that which led to everyone assuming they were married. It was almost as if Jaskier liked misleading people - which, well, he was a bard. Of course he did. He liked to embellish, polish the truth, until a simple pebble became a sharp rock aimed for the heart. Geralt understood it, but he didn’t condone it. Usually. 

“Let’s eat,” Jaskier said decisively, pointing back to the inn. “You have a large stomach to fill, after all, and it’s better to go on a walk after a meal to aid digestion. Didn’t Horvo say he was going to get us dinner?”

“That was before you ripped his door off its hinges,” Geralt replied, but go back to the inn they did. 

* * *

The door was still broken. Horvo seemed considerably less pleased to see Jaskier now, though he was still as apathetic towards Geralt’s presence as always. 

"Watch your strength," he bit as they both sat down at a table. "You may be serving this community but I only have so many doors."

"And I will conduct myself with the utmost care from now on," Jaskier said with a flourish, "but if you would kindly bring us ale and stew to occupy our busy hands, then surely the task of keeping them away from any errant furniture or fixings would be far easier."

Horvo went off with a grumble, and Geralt hated how quickly he couldn't hear him anymore. There was a moment of companionable silence between the two. Geralt rather enjoyed it - that is to say, he preferred it over Jaskier's endless narrative. Or, perhaps, he just enjoyed the anticipation before Jaskier inevitably started talking again. 

Except he didn't. Instead, he settled down onto the uncomfortable tavern bench, looking at his own hands with a pensive expression. Geralt had seen mirrors before, of course, but seeing his own face a metre away from him was overwhelmingly unnerving. He wondered what it was like for Jaskier. 

They continued in silence a little while longer.

"Geralt," Jaskier said quietly, and then seemed to regret it. Geralt tilted his head. 

"It's unlike you to be so reticent, Dandelion."

Jaskier hummed, his mouth opening and closing several times. "I was just thinking that I'm not entirely sure these mutations were very good for you. I can hardly handle it. Everything is happening so much more than before."

"You haven't been trained," Geralt said, watching his expression. "Haven't lived with it. You'll get used to it."

Jaskier grimaced. "But that's the thing. We haven't met anyone who switched back, and the couple who tried to... died. What if we don't switch back either? What if we're stuck like this."

"We won't be."

"But if we are... whore of a _bitch_ , Geralt, what if we are. What happens then? Neither of us will be particularly good at our jobs. Well, I suppose I can try and sing, but I won't be a very good witcher, not like you. And you're not a very good bard."

"We'll fix this," Geralt growled. "It's a spell. Spells can be broken."

"As you say," Jaskier said, trailing off. 

Horvo appeared, food and drink in hand, eyeing the both of them with suspicion. 

"Horvo, my dear fellow," Jaskier began, and Geralt was on high alert, "what's your opinion on this whole fiasco, then?" 

"Me?" Horvo said, blinking. "Me? Well, I don't know, seeing as how I don't have much to do with that kind of thing."

"Never been married, my fellow?" 

"Nay sir, nay, and I'm not the worse for it."

"Good man. And yet, we seem to have our first documented case of extra-marital transmission before your very eyes."

Geralt could see Horvo's mouth working around the words "extra-marital". "Sirs," he said nervously, eyes darting between them, "if you're having some kind of _domestic_ then I'm afraid I'm not really the right person to ask for advice-"

"No, man, not like - I meant that it appears to be striking people outside of marriage. Like me and Geralt here. We're just two friends." Jaskier was gesturing now, shoulders sloping easily. "Two strapping young things, though I suppose neither of us are that young any longer, side by side on the road. Neither of us wear rings, as you can see by our splendidly bare fingers. And yet this blasted curse has decided to hit us, rather than any of the many conquests we both have accrued under our belt."

Horvo seemed perplexed. "Well, that's precisely it, innit," he said. "Many conquests? Why aren't they here then?"

"Because - because good gods, Horvo, that would be a small caravan! People would think we were a travelling circus!" 

"You're here with him and he's here with you." Horvo looked exceedingly out of his depth. He turned to Geralt for support - but Geralt, used to Jaskier's little tangents, gave him no relief. He had checked out of the conversation long ago. Horvo blundered on. "Excuse me for speaking out of turn, but maybe the curse knows something you don't."

"Something we don't! Away, you miserable tease, away. You clearly don't know what you're talking about. We are lone wolves."

"Lone wolves," Horvo repeated. "You're both lone wolves."

"Yes."

"Only. Only lone wolves are lone, ain't they. Stands to reason. They're 'lone."

"That's right," said Jaskier, nodding triumphantly. "No strings to tie them down. Just two lone wolves, travelling together."

"If you're travelling together," Horvo said, sounding like he was slowly verbally navigating a minefield, "then you're not exactly lone anymore, are you. You're just. You're just regular wolves."

"Away! Geralt, listen to this nonsense. You're just not getting it Horvo-"

But Geralt wasn't listening. He was looking across the bar at the ravaged doorway, where he had just seen a face poke in and stare at them before darting away. It had been fast, and Jaskier's eyes weren't the sharpest, but he swore he recognised the person. Without excusing himself, he stood, quickly walking over to the doorway and looking out. The village was quiet and still. Nobody else was out on the street where he looked, and looked again. 

"Geralt?" Jaskier called, and Geralt came back, eyebrows furrowed. Geralt shook his head minutely, and Jaskier understood what he wasn't saying immediately, deftly changing subject. "Geralt, I've just had a chilling thought. What if I tried to sing with your voice?" 

And just like that, Geralt was suddenly overcome with a whole new shiver of fear of his own. 


	5. Sharon Turnip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well, not to give to much away, but i'm afraid "sharon turnip and the very horny horse" is not a real folk song. however it does exist in various different segments in various google documents, torturing my poor friends whenever they come across it. long live sharon turnip

The tavern started filling as the lazy summer afternoon sank into evening. In a village this small, the people were poor, but the beer was cheap. Children ran underfoot, playing games with complicated rules that they all seemed to understand implicitly - perhaps that was a skill people lost when they grew up, the strange telepathy of children - and people sat at tables, laughing and singing, picking at little bowls of roasted seeds and drinking away their long days on the fields. 

Geralt looked from face to sunburned face, and suffered. Usually when a tavern was loud and noisy, he could tune out different voices and focus on the ones he cared about. A new mark, for example, or someone who looked worried and may be talking about whatever awful creature was worrying their sheep. But these ears were focusing on all the wrong things. A bang as someone dropped a plate. A child's insistent chatter. The sounds of a lute being played slowly and haltingly, interspersed with Jaskier's curses-

"These blasted sausage fingers, Geralt, I can barely keep to one string and that's it! It's like being a beginner all over again-"

Geralt felt irritation rise in him, hot and unwanted. It wasn't unusual, necessarily. He'd been frustrated and angry before, but usually when pushed into a frenzy by something else - sleep deprivation, or hunger, and after days of it, not minutes. In his body, he could close his eyes briefly and will himself to calm down no matter which chattering noble was talking his ear off and incensing him to flip a table. 

But right now, it was dangerously hard to calm down. He tried breathing heavier. It almost worked. 

There was a twang. "Damn it, damn it and blast it, and it hurts too!" 

Jaskier examined the sore red tips of Geralt's wide fingers with a wince. His fine lute strings were shredding them. His own fingers were calloused and tough by now from years of pressing down hard on the frets, but Geralt's calluses were all where his swords rubbed at his palms and where his armour usually sat. "You're so coordinated in every respect but this," he grumbled, one hand splayed awkwardly on the neck, the other fumbling with the strings. He kept playing the wrong notes like some kind of amateur. "Makes sense, I suppose: playing a lute is a motor skill as well as a cerebral one. You have to learn to disconnect your left hand from your right and make them do two distinctly separate and complicated things. And you may have many motor skills, my lovely monster killing wolf, but this is clearly not one of them."

He tried a few arpeggios, but it sounded so clumsy and awful that he had to give up. “I can’t sing anything. Not that these locals would appreciate it: they look like the kind of crowd who prefer... well, you know, the kind of song you can really sing along to. Like - oh, remember that really awful one they taught us in Piedzny, that miserable village.  _ Sharon Turnip and the Horny Horse. _ ”

He spared a glance at Geralt's expression, and stilled. There it was again. That feral, furious scowl that he'd seen the first time Geralt had run into a room and declared he was blind. With a bolt of wisdom, Jaskier put the lute down. 

"Well, perhaps I'll treat them to that particular ballad some other time. Geralt, you look like a cat shat in your stew. What's wrong?" 

Geralt shot him a glare. 

“This body.”

“And what about my body?”

“Nevermind.”

“Right, I see.” Jaskier sighed and stood, gesturing to their now-empty cups. “I’m going for round two. For you as well?”

“You’re a lightweight,” Geralt reminded him, and he gasped. 

“I most certainly am not. This body may burn off alcohol quicker than a human’s, but I’ll have you know I could drink any  _ mortal  _ man under the table.”

Geralt, who knew this wasn’t true, just looked away, flexing his knuckles til they turned white, and Jaskier hovered only a moment before ambling over to the bar. It was strange, to watch a witcher act so fluid and friendly as he walked. People avoided him, of course, unnerved by his size and the colour of his hair, but when Jaskier moved him... he almost looked like any regular man. Large, yes, but almost normal. Geralt closed his eyes and tried once more to gain back his inner calm. 

Someone let out a loud, hawking laugh, and his eyes flew open. He almost wanted to turn and snap at the person to be quiet, to throw a plate at the wretched couple nearby giggling into their cups, to do something to release the geyser of anger bubbling in him. He couldn’t. He was acting like a child. He wanted to go upstairs and sleep. He wanted to run into the woods and shake the old woman by the shoulders until she switched them back. He wanted... 

His eyes flickered to Jaskier, who was at the bar by now among the throng of visitors. Easy to spot. He was leaning lazily on the bar, the picture of ease, calling far too much attention to himself. And attention he had gained: a woman was already in conversation with him, somehow, while the barkeep poured a new cup for him. She seemed fine. A provincial beauty, some lines on her face. Nothing warranting the spike of irritation in Geralt. And that was new: he felt irritation all the time when Jaskier started flirting, because usually it meant that there would be delays, or trouble, or god forbid, emotions, but it was the type of irritation that came hand in hand with travelling. Like having to re-shoe Roach, for example. Or replacing his armor when coin was low. But this was different. Too much. Hot. Irrational and dangerous. 

He knew he was staring, but it was hard to look away. Seeing his own face light up with uncharacteristic pleasure and warmth. Watching his own mouth spill sweet nothings he was glad he couldn’t hear. Disgusting. 

* * *

Jaskier was tragically aware that the conversation with this rather distinguished lady wouldn’t go further than that - a conversation. While he usually held few reservations, being in this body stopped him short when he imagined getting to know it any further than he did already. It was Geralt’s, after all, and who knew what would happen? Perhaps there was some witchery trick he didn’t know where if he wasn't careful he’d end up casting a strange cantrip on her and hurting her. And, perhaps, having to fully face the Geralt’s naked body from his current perspective was more than a little overwhelming. 

“Your hair is old but your face is young,” the woman was saying, and Jaskier hummed. 

“Yes, isn’t it? I think it’s rather distinguished. It’s like a snowy mountain peak covered in wildflowers.”

She snorted, giving him a strange look. “Are you always this poetic about your own face?”

“Hm?” Jaskier realised his mistake. “Oh. Well. That’s the thing, it’s- nevermind. But go on, I believe you were telling me how handsome I look.”

“Your ego is certainly inflated,” she said, an eyebrow raising. “Is it all hot air, or can you back it up?”

Jaskier forcibly bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood. “Well, I should be getting back to my companion now,” he mumbled, just as there was a shrill shriek behind him. He turned, fast - too fast, Geralt was too lithe - to lock eyes with the red, affronted face of a different woman entirely. 

“Oi!” she yelled, face managing to both go pale and flush all at the same time. Jaskier was rather worried she was ill. “You great brute, how dare you?”

Jaskier blinked. “Hm?”

“You pinched my arse!” She thrust out a hand to reveal a shining ring. “And me engaged and all!”

“I did not, and  _ would _ not pinch your bottom, my dear lady,” Jaskier said, before someone tapped him on the shoulder. 

“You prick,” said a masculine voice, and Jaskier grunted as a fist whacked him right on the ear, leaving it ringing. Interestingly, it hurt, but it didn’t knock him down. “That’s my girl!”

Ah. Jaskier knew this dance. It was the _drunken man protects his lady’s_ _virtue_ jig, the one where fists flew and egos were tarnished and almost nothing on earth would stop Jaskier getting a kick right in the unmentionables, even if he hadn’t _done_ anything. 

“I didn’t bloody touch her,” he said, feeling far too calm in the face of things. Perhaps it was the sense of security that came from knowing he was built like a beef brickhouse. Perhaps it was Geralt’s stupid lack of appropriate hormones. The man trying to punch him spat and reared up for another punch, which Jaskier caught, surprising even himself. His eyes widened. 

“Oh ho,” he said, realising the world of possibility which had just opened for him. “Say, I could pulverise you.”

“Oh yeah?” said the other man, incensed despite the sudden wash of nervous piss-stench that wafted from him. “Big man, huh, harassing my girl?”

Jaskier ignored him, a delighted grin on his face as he  _ tugged, _ sending the man flying into the bar. With deliberate slowness, he turned the man round, coming face to face with him and holding him up by his lapels. 

“I didn’t touch your girl, sir, nor did I even send her a glance, as lovely as she is. Now, how would you like to be dealt with?”

It was so easy. His mind was so wonderfully clear, unclouded by all that pesky heat he got blinded with before. Now he could see it all laid out in detail, down to how many teeth this man was going to lose. There was a murmur passing through the bar, rippling across in nervous waves, the sound of humans becoming uneasy, and Jaskier thought it sounded just like those unfortunate times he was forced to sleep in a hayloft above the chickens and a fox came sniffing at the doors: a nervous cluck, a sudden stillness, hundreds of beady eyes wide and unblinking in the dark. 

There was a moment of perfect stillness. 

“I’m a bard,” a rough voice suddenly called, and Jaskier dimly realised it was  _ his  _ voice. There was the off-key strum of a lute. “I sing things.”

* * *

In many ways, it had been a blessing that Geralt was staring. It meant he saw the disaster happen almost in slow motion. 

Jaskier didn’t get it. He didn’t understand. The rage built up as the struggling human was held against the bar, Geralt could taste it, cobalt and sharp, and he knew he had to do something or they were both going to hang before the morning. He needed everyone’s attention, immediately, but who was going to listen to some little idiot in a colourful doublet when there was such an engaging spectacle at the bar? He looked around, desperate, thinking of perhaps throwing a plate after all, when his eyes settled on Jaskier’s lute.

There had been times in Geralt’s life where, despite everything, it felt as if destiny had him on a leash. It came with that old bone-settling thought: this is going to happen no matter what I do. It was unwelcome. It was inevitable. The feeling wasn’t helped by the fact that as soon as he picked up the lute, his fingers curled into positions that felt alien and yet totally comfortable. 

Motor skills and muscle memory, he cursed internally, as his thumb tucked under his fingers. 

“I’m a bard,” he yelled, voice hoarse and so unlike Jaskier’s usual playful tones, before letting lose a god awful din from the lute. In that exact moment, he realised he had no idea what to say next. “I sing things,” he wagered. 

* * *

There was another, very still moment of silence. Jaskier made eye contact with Geralt, and felt the air get punched out of his lungs. Was that... was that what he looked like when he performed? Hunched over the lute awkwardly, eyes wild and blue with adrenaline, mouth twisted up into an uncomfortable sneer? Surely not. But this was the closest thing he’d ever get to seeing himself perform. 

Helpless, frozen in place, letting the unlucky man slip from his hands, Jaskier watched as his body stood on a stool and then the table with only a slight wobble. Did Geralt even know any of his songs? Could Geralt even sing? 

“There once was a winsome girl,” Geralt began in a solemn chant, strumming the lute randomly as he looked around with a glower, “called old Sharon Turnip.”

Jaskier’s eyes shut, momentarily, as he bit back a laugh. No, of course. Geralt knew  _ one  _ song, at least. 

“Who had very comely wrists and a very comely hip. And all the day long she would ride around the gorse, with her peculiarly mutated very horny horse.”

There was silence. The villagers watched uncertainly as Geralt walked over the tables. It was a move he’d seen Jaskier do in the heat of the moment, but when he did it, it was predatory and maudlin. People shrank back from their meals as he stepped back, as if afraid he’d kick them in the teeth. 

Well, nothing for it. Jaskier joined in. 

“She rode it all the night and she rode it all the day! She slept upon its back and she rolled around the hay!” Jaskier’s eyes widened at the sound of Geralt’s sonorous baritone rising from him like a wave, clashing awfully with Geralt’s current reedy tenor. “She - I say Geralt, you have a  _ wonderful _ singing voice - by the scrote, and swore up and down that it was nary a goat!”

“With a flank the size of Oxenfurt and a trot to make you sick,” Geralt continued, face redder than a beetroot as he continued to scream-sing, “all who saw remarked upon the sizing of its-”

“Horns!” Jaskier interrupted, flashing a manic glance at the children staring up at them in curiosity. “That were upon its head, such noble things I saw!”

And, just like that, as if the tension had been popped from a cork, there was a scream of laughter from the corner, and the tavern fell into utter and total chaos. 


	6. An Executioner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello again and sorry for the delay! i have rather mountainous amounts of coursework to do this week  
> i love and appreciate every kudos and comment you leave!! they're all so kind, thank you <3

Jaskier was delighted with himself, Geralt could tell. He was singing in Geralt's voice as they wandered out of the inn together. 

The crowd had kicked them out, of course. The performance was awful. Geralt couldn't play a lute, and Jaskier was large and scary. But thank every star they were being kicked out for making too much noise, and not for starting a bar fight, because Jaskier...

"Up the mountain, down the lane, never to see my bonny again!" Jaskier was singing, voice swooping up and down with delight. He seemed to be savouring Geralt's voice, forcing it into scales, testing its depth and breadth. "Never again, never again, never to kiss my bonny coxswain! Over the ocean, under the sea, my bonny will return to kiss me! Never again, never again will I - ouch!"

Geralt had had enough. He bodily slammed against Jaskier, forcing him to stumble against a low wall and take a seat, but his dumb smile didn't drop. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know, I'm just so enchanted with how you sound - my dear witcher, you should give up the business and sing with me!"

"Jaskier," Geralt swore, forcing him to sit down again. "Listen to me."

"You sound so angry at me but I think this evening went swimmingly!"

"You threatened a human."

"Yes, and? He deserved it. Stupid brute didn't know who he was up against-"

Geralt swung and, with a great deal of force, slammed his skinny forearm into Jaskier's thick neck, cutting him off. He held himself there, close against Jaskier, eye to eye, teeth gritted. He knew what kind of face he was making: black with fury. 

"That's the  _ point _ ," he spat, his whole body shaking with adrenaline. "Jaskier, you're not a simple man, but you're acting like a fucking imbecile. Look at the body you have. It's designed to kill, every inch." He surged forward, eyes flickering to each part of his own body as he described them. "Sharp eyes to see threats coming before they see you. Sharp hearing that can pick up on changes in heartbeats, hidden motions, even breathing. Strong enough to crush skulls in your hands, quick enough to never get hit,  _ mutated _ enough to heal before your opponent can wear you down. This isn't a stupid little bar spat against someone who's equal to you. This is you, a  _ monster _ , tearing apart someone who can barely defend themselves from you." He spat. "This body isn't human, Jaskier, and I don't think you realise it. You can't just pick fights, because you are always going to win." He pressed even more forward, pressing his point with his arm, and Jaskier stared back at him with wild eyes. " _ You are always going to win _ ." 

Jaskier's hand came to his forearm, and he found himself being pushed away with undeniable strength. There was a lost look in Jaskier's golden eyes now, confusion and something else. 

"But you don't always win," Jaskier said, eyebrows lilting together. "You're saying it like you're some kind of... of brute, who kills every man he fights-"

"I hold back," Geralt said, fruitlessly pushing against that grip. "You think I fight a man the same as I fight a drowner? Look. I can't even get close to you with all of my strength." 

Jaskier looked between them, at where his hands were pushing back Geralt with ease, where Geralt was shaking with exertion while he barely broke a sweat. His eyes widened like he was just realising something. 

"But isn't it good to always win? Doesn't that just make you the better fighter?"

"No," Geralt replied. "It makes me an executioner."

Jaskier was thinking. Geralt could see the cogs turning, see him working through everything, and prayed that he was finally understanding what Geralt was trying to say - that he was too big, too much, too strong to live in the human world without consequence, without hurt-

"You're not an executioner," Jaskier said, a hand coming to rub along his own neck. "Nor a monster. Geralt, is that how you see yourself?"

"I don't want you accidentally killing a man by punching him too hard," Geralt snapped, frustrated that Jaskier had apparently missed the fucking point entirely. "No fights unless you're certain you want to see it through to the end." 

"Geralt..."

"Shut up, Jaskier." Geralt stumbled back, tasting blood somehow. Perhaps he'd bitten his own tongue. Maybe that was just the human taste of frustration. "You don't understand."

"I understand a  _ lot _ more than you think-"

"You  _ don't _ . You don't fucking understand." How could he? He'd never been in a bar fight he couldn't leave. Never hurt someone with his own brute strength. Never been made to pick between the  _ lesser of two evils. _ Geralt stormed away, heading to the stables of the inn where he knew Roach would be waiting patiently for his return. 

"... well, be that as it may... wait, where are you going?" Jaskier was running to catch up: Geralt could hear his heavy footsteps, predatory and full of promise. 

"We're leaving."

"Leaving? But the cottage -" 

"We're leaving."

Jaskier sounded absolutely overwhelmed as Geralt found Roach and started packing her saddlebags. 

"We can't just leave! We need to find the old lady and get her to switch us back! We can't just live like this - Geralt, slow down and talk to me! Explain it to me!" 

Roach was rearing back and biting at his fingers, just like she would at Jaskier, but Geralt wasn't Jaskier, wasn't him at all, trapped in his soft, delicate, vulnerable body which wouldn't obey him, deaf and blind and helpless, and Jaskier was still talking. 

"There's nothing to explain!" he roared, rearing back to grab Jaskier by the shoulder even though all he wanted to do was punch him in the jaw. "Get on the fucking horse and ride her out of the village!" 

"Ride Roach?"

"She won't let me on!" He snapped and waved his hand near Roach, and she stepped away from him with a whinny. "She won't let me on because I look and smell and sound like you, so you have to ride her. You have to get up there and tell her what to do." 

Jaskier looked hesitant, hands fluttering up to take Roach's bridle, and his mouth opened and closed several times. As if sensing his nerves, Roach snorted, eyes rolling as she tried to pull her head away. Good girl. She knew something was wrong. 

Still, she let Jaskier crawl into her saddle, and his face was so distinctly put out. 

"This feels wrong." 

"It all feels wrong." Geralt couldn't tolerate any more of this. "Start riding."

"Geralt-"

" _ Ride _ , bard."

Jaskier did not ride. Instead, he held down a hand to Geralt, eyebrows knitting together. 

"She lets me ride when you let me ride," he said, by way of explanation. "Join me up here."

Geralt nearly said no. Nearly said fuck you, and walked away. But he didn't. Instead, he let himself be pulled up onto the saddle, sitting just in front of his own body, his own wide arms boxing him in. And this stupid  _ stupid _ human body liked the contact, flushing warm with alien comfort. Didn't matter that it was technically himself: didn't matter that he was angry and pissed off and overwhelmed. The touch calmed him. He hated it. 

They rode in silence out of the town. Geralt was stewing, his anger hot and flooding him, while Jaskier was pensive. 

A good few minutes into the journey, Jaskier finally broke the silence. 

"So," he began, "are you finally going to tell me why we had to flee from the village like two fugitives on the run?" 

Geralt looked around, but everything was so dark. The sun had just set, and now these weak human eyes were struggling to see beyond the path. Anything could be out there. It made him itch. 

"I need you to listen," he said. "Listen and see if anyone is following us." 

Jaskier hummed his assent, and there was silence for a moment. And then:

"Geralt, I'm not entirely sure what I'm listening for." 

"Heartbeats. Footfalls. Use your nose." Geralt shut his eyes. Talking Jaskier through basic sensory tactics wasn't what he imagined doing with his evening. 

"I'm using my nose, but all I can smell is me," Jaskier replied, voice curling plaintively. "I think I'm going to bathe more often. I didn't realise just how much I stink all the time."

"You smell fine. Concentrate." 

There was more silence. 

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier said, his voice suddenly sounding wet somehow, and it sent a jolt of fear through him which normally he'd be able to suppress: but he couldn't, his heart was beating, he was turning to look at Jaskier- 

"The stars," Jaskier choked, and Geralt's eyes flickered upwards. 

There were no stars that he could see. He'd assumed that it was because there was cloud cover, but no, he could see one star settling on the lilac horizon. Ah. Witcher senses yet again. No doubt Jaskier had somehow managed to adjust his eyes despite his trouble earlier, and now he was seeing what Geralt would usually see. The dim light of evening stars were too weak for human eyes. 

"What about them?" 

"They're beautiful. They're so beautiful." 

"Jaskier, for fuck's sake, are we being followed or not?" 

"I - I don't think so. I didn't hear anything."

"Someone in that town wanted us to get out," Geralt murmured, so quiet he knew only Jaskier would hear it now. "I suspect the same person who followed us to the cottage also started the bar fight." 

"But who?"

Geralt didn't answer. There was one face he had kept spotting all over the village. The only thing he couldn't work out was motive. 

"Is it to do with the child earlier?" Jaskier sounded chagrined. "I didn't mean to scare her. I wouldn't have made such a fuss about the pebble if I'd known-"

"Children and animals don't like witchers very much," Geralt said, interrupting him. Shame didn't suit Geralt's voice. "Perhaps. I think something else is going on. We're going to circle back and go to the cottage tomorrow when we're sure nobody is tailing us." 

"Oh. Oh! Oh, what a relief. I was half afraid you'd made your peace and you were going to steal my body forever." Jaskier let out a chuckle, and it made Geralt shake from his spot. "I know you make it your policy not to meddle with human affairs, but leaving them all swapped like that would have been terrible."

"It's not a human affair. It's some witch or some sorceress and a spell that's out of control." 

"You say that," Jaskier hummed, and again, the vibrations travelling through Geralt's chest like a cat purring, "but I don't think there's anything more human than feeling out of place in your own body." 

* * *

Geralt guided them in a wide loop around the village, taking them across the farmer's fields, down their narrow lanes which usually only transported barrows and plough oxen. Jaskier half paid attention to their route, and half to the hush sensory smorgasbord which was the countryside at night. It was gorgeous. The air was warm from a day of sun, and the dusty smell of the road was settling down to be replaced by rising damp, green and wet, the flowers and the bushes all perfuming the air with gentle softness. 

His own smell still remained, strong and powerful from the body sitting directly in front of him, but he found he didn't mind it after a while. Geralt had never complained about it. Still, Jaskier vowed to be more mindful from now on and dunk himself in more rivers when he got particularly  _ fragrant _ . He had a feeling that his usual tactic of dowsing himself with a pleasant scent would just overload his nose even worse. 

What a strange concept that was. To find out that all this time, Geralt had been smelling him. His emotions, sometimes, when they produced a body response. His cologne. It made a hot, itchy feeling travel up his spine. Geralt had never complained about it, after all. 

Geralt was less silent like this. Jaskier could hear his heartbeat, hear it randomly speed up or slow whenever there was a noise loud enough to hear. Could hear his breathing. It was all... all rather painfully intimate. Especially since he was looking at his own neck from behind. Thankfully, he thought, he actually looked rather good from this angle. He'd been worried that seeing himself from the outside would reveal all his flaws and ugly parts, but actually... actually, it had been rather neutral, like meeting a stranger for the first time. Yes. Just like meeting a stranger. 

"Geralt," he said, quietly. "Talk to me. Are you alright?”

Geralt didn’t answer, but his hands tightened on the saddle which he was gripping like a vice. 

"You're very tense," Jaskier continued. "I know my own body. I just wish we could switch back quickly. I know it's off-putting." 

"It's fine."

"It isn't, though." On auto-pilot, Jaskier did what he would have done regardless of whose body he's in. He leaned forward and bumped his forehead on the nape of Geralt's neck, just briefly, in a strange comforting action, unintentionally getting a noseful of his scent again. "You're upset."

"Why are you so intent on telling me what I'm feeling?" 

"Because I'm not feeling anything, and it's worrying me." Jaskier didn't feel the need to lie at this point. "Or, rather, it's more like... everything's under a blanket. Behind a door I don't have the key to. It's there, I can hear the noise it's making, but it's just out of reach." 

"Witchers don't feel."

"I don't think that's true. I think they do." Jaskier could physically feel Geralt drawing in on himself in front of him. "They just feel it different. And I know that my body feels rather a lot of things, all the time. I've never felt so calm as when I'm not in it. Let me know if it gets too much. I can help calm you down."

"How?" Geralt didn't sound angry, didn't sound desperate. His voice was carefully neutral. 

"Music. I use music to sort myself out a lot. Surely you've picked up on that? Whenever I'm dreadfully upset and hurt, I find that spending some time listening to the saddest music I can play helps me through it. Same with excitement, and anger, and any other emotion."

"So you want me to sing to myself? Not what I was expecting.”

“Well, it’s up to you. I’m not the one sitting and stewing in his own emotions like some kind of... Geralt stew.”

“Hmm.”

“You know, that sounds far less impressive when I do it.”


	7. Morning Chorus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here we are. back again.   
> you're all so kind to me, so have a lil chapter on me

The cottage was eerie at night. They left Roach tied to a fence post way back in the woods, and crept forward quietly through the undergrowth, eyes and ears open. 

Geralt, even in the bard’s body, was still wondrously quiet. He was hardly wrong-footed, though Jaskier’s better vision had to step in and save him when he was about to tumble down a badger’s set that he hadn’t spotted. Soon, they were looking at the old building, at how the windows stared out into the darkness. Jaskier’s head flew up at a strange high pitched whistle that hurt his ears, and a bat flew across out of the hole in the roof. It sent a shiver down his spine. He hadn’t heard bat calls since he was a child, and even then, they were half-remembered, half-heard feelings, more sensations than sounds. 

Geralt leaned up and whispered directly into Jaskier’s ear, quietly as possible:

“Listen for a heartbeat. Tell me if anyone’s in the cottage.”

Again, shivers ran down his spine. He was a tactile man, and hot breath on someone’s ear was enough to drive anybody crazy, especially now, in this body. He shook himself out of it, and closed his eyes, listening hard. Noise, everywhere. Rustles. Calls. No heartbeats, aside from the one next to him, loud and distracting. 

“Can you stop?” he hissed, and Geralt frowned at him. 

“Stop what?”

“Being so loud.”

There was a wry smile on his own face. “Hm.”

“What?”

“That’s what I wish for every day.”

“Oh, shut up-”

“I wish you’d do that too.”

Shooting him an annoyed glare, Jaskier shoved Geralt behind him and tried again. Still nothing except the soft sound of a forest not asleep. He shook his head. “Nobody. Does that mean the old lady isn’t human?”

“Monsters have hearts sometimes. If not, then they stink. Keep an ear out. And your nose,” Geralt whispered. “Someone from the village may be watching here in case we came back.”

Jaskier nodded. Together, they stepped out into the clearing. Feeling something tugging at his back, he looked back long enough to see Geralt pull the steel sword out of the holster on his back, and his breath caught. 

Jaskier’s body, familiar and colourful and lithe, curled over like a predator’s with a sharp sword. The only thing that gave him away was the slight tremble in his arms - clearly not used to the weight. Eyes focused, mouth set. Geralt was wearing him very, very well. 

“What?” he hissed, feeling them stop, and Jaskier shook his head. 

“Nothing.”

They continued where they had walked yesterday. Geralt led the way, opening the front door with a low, long creak that had them both freezing in their spot. Nothing changed. Jaskier started walking before Geralt did, perhaps because Geralt had been waiting on his cue that all was well. 

Inside they crept. The house was, as far as Jaskier could see, normal - aside from the moss and greenery tumbling down the walls, old fabrics bulging with plantlife, the stench of rot curling from under their feet, floorboards soft. Geralt was more hesitant, so Jaskier offered him an arm to take - which he batted away with a scoff. Fine. Jaskier instead did exactly what Geralt told him to, and took a good long sniff. 

Immediately, he choked. The stench of something else rotting hit him - not just the vaguely green smell of moss and fungus, but something worse, darker, rotten meat and old flesh. His eyes opened wide, and he looked around. 

“I believe there’s something here.” He sniffed again, involuntarily, and cringed. “Something disgusting.”

Geralt stiffened, eyes darting around. “Where?”

“Don’t know. Smells awful. Worse than you when you’re scared.”

That got him the briefest of scathing looks, before they were stalking through the cottage again. Jaskier could still hear nothing amiss. A bat, again, but it faded quickly. A creak as wood settled behind them. A new scent was mingling, strong behind Geralt, that acrid-sweat-fear smell, which was strange, because Jaskier didn’t feel scared at all. He was wary, yes, and he felt ready to jump at the next thing he saw. But Geralt was scared. 

The other smell was present, still but unchanging. They searched the house, risking the old stairs even though they didn’t look as if they could support any kind of grown man, looking up at the empty gables and the night sky peeking through the ivy. There was a small cot with mouldy blankets, and various books, all unreadable and ruined by rain. Nobody had lived her for a long, long time. Jaskier couldn't smell anything amiss up here, and shook his head.

“No old lady lives here,” he said quietly, and Geralt hummed his agreement. They crept back downstairs, and searched every room - but each was empty, untouched, and still. Jaskier pulled Geralt back just before he could walk face first into a massive spider web and got no thanks for it. 

The source of the smell got stronger in what looked like a pantry, and Jaskier sniffed around, grimacing, at the old bags of grain and potatoes which had long tried to grow out of their sack. 

“Here.”

Geralt nodded once, and then did something very peculiar - he stomped, hard. Jaskier flew to stop him, before he realised what he was doing. Together, they searched around the floor and found it - a rusted brass ring, set into the floor. Jaskier pulled, and the stench rose from below like a gust of halitosis from a particularly toothless peasant. Geralt tensed, sword ready, and together, they peered down into the solid velvet darkness below. 

Jaskier saw them first, and sighed. 

“Oh dear.”

Three bodies. They were rotted, but Jaskier could just about make out a slightly... fresher couple, and beyond them, what must have been quite a small old woman. 

“So,” Jaskier said, closing the trap door again when Geralt had satisfied his own curiosity, “a dead old woman with a weird cottage that switches people's bodies, and a young freshly wed couple who were supposed to have died in some wizard’s tower. So what are they all doing in this basement?”

“Someone used the old woman as an excuse,” Geralt said, brow furrowing. “Needed a cover story. There must be some kind of glamour on this cottage to keep people away - otherwise the village would have found these bodies already-”

There was a snap of twigs in the distance, and Jaskier threw his hand over Geralt’s mouth. Footsteps on the path. Coming closer, loud in the quiet of the night. Working on pure instinct, they moved as one, throwing themselves into the other room, desperately rolling under a table which had half collapsed from time and rot. It was barely enough to cover them both - Jaskier was on the bottom, bracing Geralt in his arms, who hadn’t been strong enough to stop it from happening - and  _ that  _ was a thought he’d have to examine later. 

They made eye contact, Geralt’s breath too loud, too harsh. They’d be discovered. Jaskier stilled, and his body stilled too, his heart rate slowing so fast he felt dizzy with the sudden loss of oxygen. It looked like Geralt was trying to do the same on instinct, but his heart was pounding so fast it sounded like it  _ hurt.  _

The footsteps came to the front door, pausing. The door opened with that same creak, slow and painful. Jaskier couldn’t see who or what entered, but their feet dragged, shuffling, their breath coming in ragged gasps. There was a new smell, too, and it made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. It smelled like petrichor and ozone, the heavy, close smell just before rain, and like stagnant water, sulfurous, dank, with hidden depths. He could feel Geralt’s hand clench involuntarily to their side around the sword. 

The thing creaked through the house. There was the sound of the trap door opening again, and the smell of death, before it closed once more. The thing stayed still. The sound was low and quiet, like a million flies buzzing somewhere in the distance, like lightning just before it snapped and struck, like...

There it was, trickling down his neck like cold water. An awareness of danger. He knew, with dread certainty, that this wasn’t a fight he wanted to start. Not yet. 

There was the shuffling of the thing, and it left the cottage. Its footsteps seemed deliberate, and neither men moved. It walked and walked and walked away, almost out of hearing. Geralt made eye contact, the unasked question: is it gone? Jaskier shook his head minutely. The footsteps stopped. A rustle of greenery. Silence. 

It wasn’t gone. This Jaskier was certain of. It wasn’t gone. It was waiting, staking out the house. His arms tightened around Geralt, who seemed to understand. They had to wait. 

* * *

It stayed there until the morning chorus began singing. Jaskier had grown to appreciate it, the way birds screamed their greetings to the first hint of sun - it was a handy natural alarm clock, perhaps sometimes unwelcome through the thin canvas of a tent when one had a tender head, but glorious to experience. Good morning, they screamed. We made it through the night. 

Geralt had not. His body was already exhausted, and it seemed the swap had taken it out of him. Jaskier had watched, wide eyed and breathless, as Geralt’s eyes fluttered closed against his will. He looked like he was fighting it at every turn, but sleep he did, becoming a warm, dead weight on Jaskier’s chest. 

Jaskier didn’t. This body was too alert. He didn’t even consider sleeping. 

When he finally heard those slow, slow footsteps, walking away through the forest, he knew it was gone. The sound of distant flies faded. He breathed out, deep. 

Geralt snored. Jaskier froze, and stared down at his own sleeping face. He didn’t know that he snored. 

Defenseless. Weak. That was him, looking so young and careless, mouth parted without any care, eyebrows lax. A vulnerable underbelly that attached itself to Geralt without any thought to its own vulnerability. Human. Soft. 

Gently, gently, Jaskier lifted Geralt up - and it was so easy, so effortless - and, without waking him, carefully carried him out of the cottage. The man deserved his sleep. Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to wake him. Not yet. 


	8. Retirement Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BIG love and affection for everyone who tossed me a kudos and/or a comment, i get too overwhelmed to reply sometimes but i read each one like ʘʘ  
> if there's anything u wanna see in later chapters just lemme know because my inspiration is........... dry. she's dehydrated

Geralt woke up, which was a disconcerting thing all by itself, because it meant he had fallen asleep. 

Waking up was horrible. His body was fighting it, groggy and unresponsive, until he remembered exactly what he had been doing that night and bolted awake in blind panic. 

He didn't remember falling asleep. 

"Easy," his own voice called with an amused lilt. "Easy there." 

A warm hand on his back. Geralt flipped over and realised that he was tucked snugly on his stomach into a bedroll in the woods. Roach was snorting gently and eating something from a nosebag, while Jaskier was pulling his hand back - his own hand, his own face, fuck - with a smile. 

Mortifying. Geralt had fallen asleep without meaning to. He hadn't done that for a long, long time. 

"What happened," he said, voice rough, and Jaskier tried to hide a smile behind his hand. It didn't work. 

"The woods behind the cottage. Don't worry, we're well away from it. You fell asleep on my chest like a darling babe."

This was more than Geralt could stand. He growled - again, so much less impressive when it was in Jaskier's voice, for fuck sake - and wiped away drool from his mouth. Fucking drool. This body was untenable. 

The shadows from the trees above were dark and blue against the yellow sun, falling directly below the trees, and Geralt sat up properly to look around. 

"It's midday," he said, and Jaskier nodded. 

"You looked so tired. I thought I'd let you get some rest. Had a bit of a nap myself, actually." 

He slid out of the bed roll - to be confronted by the sight of Jaskier's bare, skinny legs, and his breeches. He wasn't wearing his doublet, either, just the stupid fancy embroidered undershirt. He averted his eyes. 

"You undressed me," he said, voice curving into pure confusion, and Jaskier spoke quickly in response: 

"It's a warm morning! I didn't want you to overheat and, besides, I get terribly terribly uncomfortable when I sleep in my trousers. And also I needed to wash them." 

Geralt looked over to where a pair of crimson trousers were hanging off a branch, right in a patch of sun. Absolutely nothing was making sense. "Why." 

"Because," and Jaskier coloured a little, growing sheepish, "because I wanted to wash them. I found a stream. You know, to get the smell out." 

"The smell." 

"Yes, Geralt, the smell. I would have washed the rest of you, but undressing you while you slept was weird enough when it was just trousers and doublet, so I'll let you wash the rest." 

Geralt sniffed himself. This blind nose. He had to get so close to be able to smell anything at all, and even then, it was just the smell of Jaskier. "I don't smell."

"What do you mean you don't smell? Geralt, this nose can smell you. It smells you very well."

He sniffed again. "It just smells like you."

"Well-" Jaskier stuttered out, "well! Well, that's fine then. If it doesn't smell... bad?"

This morning was too weird. Geralt marched over to the trousers, which were dry enough considering the warm weather, and tugged them on. "You just smell like you. It's not bad." 

"So it's good?" 

"I didn't say that."

"Geralt!" Jaskier sounded pained, but when didn't he? The whole world pained him. Geralt had never known such a peculiarly pained man for someone who never really sustained any injuries. "Listen, we have to be frank with each other. This nose is stronger than a bloodhound's, and now that I know that, I feel that we really should address it - especially the fact that you can smell me. We're friends, Geralt. And when a friend smells bad, the other friend takes them aside and asks them to bathe a little more often. Why didn't you tell me?"

Geralt heaved a heavy sigh, and wondered how to put it into words. Some people stank, and that was unpleasant. But Jaskier had always smelled of rather pleasant things: the wood from his lute, for example, and the strange oils he used to polish it; the little dried flowers he tucked into his doublet pockets, like a true fop; sweat sometimes, but Geralt found he didn't mind it; and other things too countless to name, little traces of his day, following him like miniature stories. 

But he couldn't say all that. He'd look deranged. 

"You bathe more than any man I know, Dandelion, so don't start overcompensating now. If I'm going to suffer through smelling you, I'd rather you smell like you than like pond water or perfume. And I didn't tell you," he said, something like irritation but worse rising in his stomach, a feeling he couldn't quite place, "because I don't pay attention to what you smell like." 

"Oh," Jaskier said. 

Geralt didn't bother with the doublet, nor with brushing his hair. He simply did the trousers up and slipped on the boots, idly tucking in the shirt to keep it out the way. 

"Well, you make me look like a scruffbag," Jaskier said shortly, unable to keep quiet for long. "Flaunting my chemise like that, you flirt. And at least comb my hair." 

"No. Where's the stream?" 

"Over here. Will you let me comb it at least-?"

"No." 

“Fine. Fine, but I’m at least making this body look presentable!”

“Do what you like, bard.”

Jaskier’s eyes sparkled. “Do you mean that?”

His enthusiasm was only halted by the downright poisonous look Geralt sent him. 

* * *

Geralt glared at the back of his own head. Jaskie had been true to his word, and now his white hair was tangled in two braids expertly woven above his ears, aside from some wispy strands around his face. The rest was combed into a silky mess at the back of his head, so artfully tousled and styled that it was clear Jaskier had some experience with managing long hair. Probably from overwintering with whatever rich dowager he had fallen in bed with this time. 

Geralt despised it. 

How was anybody supposed to take a witcher seriously if they looked like a Beltane maiden at her first dance? It was fine for Jaskier, who danced the knife edge of acceptable and not, who wore bright colours and sometimes smudged rouge onto his lips before performing, who was lithe and attractive and light in both step and word. Geralt's body was big and lumbering. It was rough hewn. To polish it with braids and perfume was perverse, mortifying. And yet. 

And yet he watched as Jaskier's hand fluttered up from Roach's reins to gently feel the braid, the hint of a happy smile on the sliver of his face that Geralt could see. It ached at the bottom of his stomach. Jaskier was doing things that Geralt had never allowed with his body. He was taking liberties. If he continued, Geralt would have to step in and force him to stop somehow. 

“Concentrate on the road,” he said, and Jaskier just laughed at him. Of course he did. 

"Alright then," Jaskier said finally. "Are you going to tell me why we aren't riding into the village and telling them they have a weird monster roaming around their borders?" 

"No disappearances," Geralt replied, "aside from the couple and the old woman. No suspicion from the villagers. As far as we know, the monster has intelligence enough to hide among them, and self control not to kill humans. We have to work out what we're dealing with first." 

"It checked the basement," Jaskier added thoughtfully. "An odd thing to do, isn't it? Unless you suspected someone had come and removed the bodies." 

"Suspected us. That's why I think it's hiding as a villager. It knew we were investigating." 

"And it waited for us to appear so it could... I assume kill us. But it didn't know we were already there." 

"Paranoid." Geralt nodded. "Probably killed the couple who went to see the wizard, either after they came back or before they went, and blamed the wizard."

"I wonder why?"

"Sometimes wizards give answers. I suppose it was afraid this wizard would give an answer it didn't like." 

* * *

The tower was not quite a tower, but a squat square building of white marble. There were no windows to speak of that Jaskier could see. It glowed in the sunlight across the vast meadows, distant and sturdy, looking much smaller than it really was. The sheep grazing around it looked like little white freckles on the green hill side. 

A little path wound along, cutting into the grass like a yellow ribbon. Jaskier often wished he was a proficient painter. The scene before him was as peaceful as any waking dream. 

“I like this valley,” he said, apropos of nothing at all. “It’s peaceful.”

Behind him, Geralt grumbled something unintelligible. Jaskier nodded as if it were a full sentence. 

“Retire here? That’s a brave statement to make, Geralt. Are you sure the villagers have captured your attention that easily?”

Geralt’s arms tightened against him. Jaskier smiled to himself. Geralt was so much more responsive in this body, and he didn’t think he had noticed. It was as if now he couldn’t separate his thoughts from his actions, everything expressing itself all at once in one lovely unconscious movement. 

“If you were to retire - hear me out, I know you daren’t imagine it, but listen - if you were to retire. Where would it be?”

“Witchers don’t retire, Jaskier. I must have told you this a thousand times.” There it was, that twitch of his arms, against his back. Jaskier hummed quietly. 

“A little beach hut, and we spend our days gathering shells and making fine jewellery for the local mermaids. I collect driftwood, and you burn it. We would get all wrinkly from the salt air.”

“We?”

Jaskier bit his tongue for a moment, before continuing as if he had said nothing. “Not the beach? A city then. I’ll set up a little music school, and you come along and scare all my students-”

“Jaskier.” A warm breath on his back. “Why are you talking of retiring together?”

Jaskier thought for a moment, feeling Roach’s gently sway underneath him and the warm breeze in the air. “Something about this place is making me feel sentimental,”he said finally, gesturing around the meadow. “The weather, maybe. I always feel rather soppy when it’s sunny.”

Geralt probably knew it was a flimsy excuse and a cop out of the real reason he was talking about it, but Jaskier hoped that he didn’t anyway. There was quiet, and he thought he'd gotten away with it. 

“We’ll swap back,” Geralt said, and how his hands were flexing on Jaskier’s hips. “No need to imagine futures that won’t exist.”

“Right,” Jaskier replied, feeling calm despite the bitter taste in his mouth. This body always felt calm. “Silly me.”

They continued in companionable silence, and the tower got closer and closer. Jaskier startled at a buzzing on his chest, worried it was a bee who had slipped down his shirt - but no. It was his medallion. He held it in wonder. 

“It’s buzzing.”

“Probably a ward.”

They spotted a door to the tower at the top of some short white steps. Geralt slung himself off the horse first, stomping over with that familiar gait of his, and Jaskier followed at a more sedate pace. Geralt knocked: it made no sound. 

“Try again?”

“He heard.”

There was a moment where absolutely nothing happened, and Jaskier was about to walk over and hit the door again - but just as he crowded behind Geralt, the door creaked open to reveal a pair of big brown eyes. 

“No visitors today,” a young voice said, and the door went to close again. It stopped before it could - and Jaskier realised Geralt shoved his foot in. 

“Where’s the wizard?”

“He’s away. He’s almost never here. Who wants him?”

Geralt snorted through his nose. “I will save you the energy of calling on him and giving our names. We’re a witcher and a bard, and we need some advice.”

The eyes flickered from Geralt - ostensibly human, skinny and flushing - to Jaskier. Jaskier puffed his chest up a little, but there was no need. He could feel the gaze take in the white hair, the golden eyes, and finally the medallion. There was fear, and curiosity. Jaskier could see the curiosity win. 

“Alright, alright, but I promise you there is no wizard here.” The door finally opened fully to reveal a young boy, perhaps fourteen, with the kind of long black hair that fourteen year olds think is very fetching and don’t wash enough. “I’m his nephew.”

“Fine.” Geralt stepped inside, and Jaskier hurried to follow. In eerie silence, the door shut behind them again.

Jaskier looked around in wonder. The inside was painted deep blue, though it was faded and cracking away from the walls, with the constellations painted on in ochre and yellow - expensive dyes, he thought with wonder, before reminding himself that colourful powders were probably easier to obtain for magical folk. It all smelled of herbs and ammonia. 

“And what are your names?” the boy asked, though he clearly stared only at Jaskier. 

“I am Geralt, and this is Jaskier,” Geralt said, also looking around the room. “How long have you been here?”

“A few years,” the boy replied, and then, “do all witchers have white hair?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier hummed with a smile, looking at Geralt. “Do we?”

“Did a couple ever come here for advice? About the body swapping curse?” Geralt ignored the question entirely, and Jaskier gave the boy a wry look - all business, no fun. The boy stifled a laugh. 

“Um - oh. I think so!” He perked up and ran into an adjoining room, before poking his head back. “Wait here, please.” And then he was off again. Jaskier wandered over to the wall and traced over a constellation, sniffing at the dust of the paint. He was really getting used to this. Being a witcher was easy. 

There passed a tense moment, where Geralt fidgeted and Jaskier stood still. 

“Nice tower,” Jaskier said, and Geralt jumped. “Oh. Are you alright?”

“Don’t like wizards,” Geralt replied with something like a whine in his voice. Before Jaskier could ask, the boy appeared again, carrying a dense and dusty book with him, which he promptly dropped unceremoniously on the floor and opened to a seemingly random page. 

“Visitor log,” he said by way of explanation, hunching over the tiny print. “Everyone who comes gets put in the book.”

“Convenient.”

“My uncle says it’s saved his life before.”

Paranoid. Jaskier raised his eyebrow at Geralt, who looked unimpressed. 

“I wasn’t here then,” the boy said, “but he told me about it. Someone cast a spell in the village in the old woman’s cottage, right? Made married couples switch bodies. Hold on, he put some notes here somewhere.”

“Where is your uncle, boy?” Geralt asked, and the boy shrugged.

“He doesn’t stay here anymore. The village got mad at him and made him leave. I spend my summers here looking after the observatory for him.”

“Observatory?”

“It’s huge. He uses it to observe the valley.”

“Why?”

The boy shrugged. “It’s a strange valley. It has very good weather.”

Geralt huffed, and Jaskier nodded in understanding. A wizard who preoccupied himself with weather - he probably wouldn’t be of much harm, compared to other wizards’ interests. Jaskier was still a curious man, though, and he’d never been inside a wizard’s observatory before.

“Can we see it?” 

The boy sounded unsure, eyes darting between them both. “He told me not to let visitors in.”

“Alright. I suppose it’s too complicated for me to understand anyway.”

With a noise of interest, the boy read quickly, before nodding. “Yep. Found them. A young couple in love, seeking the unbreaking of a strange binding of their bodies, in which their consciousnesses - hold on, let me skip - ah. Sent back to the village after payment of two guineas and a bottle of red wine, very tasty. That’s all it says.”

Geralt pressed his lips together in obvious impatience. “And did it say how to lift the curse?”

“Oh, yes,” the boy replied, and then didn’t explain how to lift the curse. “Why? That’s an old curse. Everyone knows how it’s cured. They would have taken the cure back with them.”

“Ah, what he means is,” Jaskier cut in, “does the book say what happened to the couple next?”

“I said, didn’t I? They went back to the village.” The boy sounded like he was trying to explain something very simple to an even simpler man. “In their own bodies again. Cured.”

“Cured how?” Geralt finally snapped, and the boy shot him a frustrated look. 

“Um. It’s very simple. You just tell each other the truth.”


	9. Endocrine System

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm back!!! after an age!!!! exalt me (i've missed writing this fic terribly!)
> 
> after such a cliffhanger, enjoy (some of) the resulting fallout
> 
> also, i've been absolutely obsessed with [this particular song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=176Pgk0-m0k) for like two months and it's the kind of vibe i've been imagining this jaskier with so, uh, enjoy

Jaskier blinked and stared at the boy, while Geralt paced like a wild animal, his shoulders up by his ears. 

"The truth?" Jaskier said. "What do you mean the truth?" 

"That's what it says in the book," the boy replied, shrugging. 

"Which truth?" Geralt snapped, lurching over to pounce on the book and glare at the pages. The boy tugged the book away protectively. "What does it mean?" 

"I don't know! I don't have any more notes than this," the boy said, moving the book away from Geralt's furious attempts to grab it until they were both shuffling in circles. 

"Then get more notes!" 

Jaskier had his eyes screwed shut. Suddenly, he opened them, and yelled: "I like getting my feet rubbed!" 

Geralt stared at him, arms squashing the boy as he attempted to grab the book. "What the fuck are you talking about." 

"I don't know! I'm just testing out different truths I've never told you before!" 

"Jaskier-"

"I'm afraid of spiders. I like apples the best, but only when they're stolen. Um. I'm a viscount!" 

"I thought you were a witcher," the boy said, bent double over the book to obstruct Geralt's attempts to steal it. 

"Jaskier, shut up," Geralt said, face red with effort as he and the boy started scuffling on the floor with about as much dignity as you might expect from a grown man stealing a book from a fourteen year old boy. "It's too vague, you - bastard bit me-"

Before the fight could get any worse, Jaskier picked up Geralt by the scruff of his neck and pulled him away, forcibly fencing him in with his arms. It was worrying to note just how simultaneously easy and difficult it was to subdue Jaskier's body when it wanted to fight. He kept having to dodge stray kicks. 

"Stop being stupid and tell me the truth!" he said, squeezing Geralt even harder every time he tried to wriggle free. "It doesn't matter which! Try anything!" 

"The truth," Geralt said gruffly, "is a shard of ice." 

There was a long pause. The boy held his book close to his chest. Jaskier puzzled over what Geralt just said. 

"I'm sure that's very poignant and meaningful," he said, "but not only is it completely lost on me, but we still appear to be in the same bodies as before. Say something less arcane. Do you like foot rubs?" 

"Jaskier!" 

"Just say it!" 

Geralt froze, before sending a glare backwards. "I like foot rubs." 

Absolutely nothing happened. Jaskier held back a snort, and the most fetching dark red blush ran up Geralt's neck, colouring his cheeks and his ears. He punched Jaskier in the crotch - some things were the same as usual - and finally wriggled away. Like a hunted fox, he avoided the gaze of both people in the room, pacing around the edges of the walls and redder than a sunburned tomato. 

"I don't understand," Geralt said, sounding strained. There was a choked tone in his voice that Jaskier knew came from the physical feeling of having a thick throat, the well of nothingness that came before tears and made speech impossible. "Tell each other the truth. There must be more books - that's too vague, and curses are usually more specific - otherwise it'll take years to figure it out, if we can find a mage to look at it - hurry up and look for the fucking book!" 

He turned from his pacing, and Jaskier froze as he spotted the redness around his eyes, the wetness there. Geralt froze too, bringing a hand to his cheek and feeling the first, hot tear fall. 

"What the fuck?" he said, voice still choking. 

Jaskier took a deep breath, and quickly bounded over, bundling Geralt into a protective hug to hide his face. Over his shoulder, he quickly asked the boy: 

"Do you have a couch somewhere quiet? The day has caught up with him."

"Get off me, Jaskier-" 

"Up in the observatory," the boy said, looking slightly panicked. Quickly he guided them up some clean but narrow stairs, into an extremely well lit room filled with strange metal contraptions that bubbled and span. There was a sturdy desk and book shelves in the middle of the room, no doubt where the wizard sat to do his arcane study, with many ink stains spilled over the surface. Jaskier hadn't seen any windows from the outside of the tower, but lining the room, there was a full panoramic view of the entire valley. It was lush with plants and bright green under the sun, and in the distance, the blue smoke of the village wound up and into the clear sky. 

Geralt sobbed like someone had slapped him under his arms, and he quickly remembered what he was doing. Right. With greatest care, he pushed Geralt onto a couch laiden with embroidered cushions, right under one of the wide windows. The sun streamed past them, casting shadows on the floor of their silhouettes. The boy hovered, looking nervous. 

"A big glass of clean water," Jaskier said, and the boy nodded, running off and leaving them alone. 

"What is this," Geralt said thickly, and Jaskier finally pushed him back enough to look at his face. Red and screwed up, tears pouring down those round cheeks. He'd always been an ugly crier, his nose wrinkling very unattractively - but the ugliness wasn't what alarmed him. "What's happening?" 

This was Geralt. Geralt didn't cry. 

"It's like I said. The day catching up with you. It's all the stress and the shock that you haven't been letting yourself feel overwhelming you." Jaskier looked around and, seeing nothing useful in the vicinity, used an embroidered cushion to wipe away some of Geralt's tears. "Tell me how you feel." 

"It's - it's big," Geralt said, stumbling over his words uncharacteristically, "feels deep. Feels like an ache that will never go away. Something's broken. Shouldn't feel this much." 

"The ache never goes away, you're right," Jaskier said, pulling him close into a hug once more. He fought it, but Jaskier was stronger now, and he won. "Humans always feel a little bit sad, I think. And a little bit happy. A little bit of everything, though some emotions are stronger than others. Haven't you ever felt overwhelmed like this before?" 

"Not since I was a child," Geralt spat, disgusted with himself, and Jaskier tutted and squeezed him tighter. "Get off. What are you doing." 

"I'm baking a delicious soufflé, Geralt, what does it look like I'm doing? You're sad and you're crying. I'm hugging you." He shook his head. "It helps me." 

"It's weird. I want to turn it off." 

And Jaskier - well, Jaskier was suddenly very aware of his own reaction, or rather, his lack of reaction. He understood Geralt's reaction because it was his own. After being wrung out and hurt and scared and angry for two days, he usually needed a bit of a cry as well - not this badly, because he'd find ways to healthily vent his emotions as they came to him. He'd sing and sigh and revel in the velvety thickness of sadness, of the sparking electric rush of happiness, of heady lust and bitter jealousy and all the million feelings that lasted as long as clouds in a summer sky. 

But Geralt was so used to tamping down those emotions that he did it automatically. And, in his witcher body, no doubt that worked out fine for him. But Jaskier's body was a shallow dish. If he tried to push too much stuff into it, it spilled. 

Even though it felt like it was very very far away, even though it felt more like an echo bouncing off a wall rather than something inside him, Jaskier felt the dull, painful click of his heart breaking in two for Geralt. 

"Just cry it out," he murmured, words which had once been murmured to him. "Just let it out."

Geralt still managed to look utterly offended even when the tears were rolling down his cheeks, and Jaskier sighed. He cradled Geralt in, shoving him into the crook of his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around him, safe and away from the rest of the world. And - silently, like the world was ending - Geralt did cry. It bled through Jaskier's shirt, warm and wet. 

Jaskier watched over Geralt's shoulder as a black cloud lingered on the horizon, before slowly gliding away out of sight. He felt distant from whatever Geralt was feeling. He understood it, but as a memory, as if watching actors on a play perform something he'd never experienced himself. He  _ had _ experienced it and it had all  _ meant _ something to him, and now he felt - he felt callous and cruel - except he didn't feel that at all. He thought it, logically.  _ I am callous in this body, _ he thought, and didn't feel any remorse or regret about it. He didn't want to hurt anyone, gods no, but he couldn't take part in their pain. 

It unsettled him, but mildly. Like adding a chore onto a list of things to do in the house. 

"I don't think these mutations have been very good for you at all," he said quietly, and Geralt pushed himself away. 

"Enough," he said, and it wasn't a growl but a resigned sigh. "First it's stress hormones, then it's the endocrine system overworking, and now there's euphoria. This body is useless." 

"Ah yes, the good old post-cry bliss," Jaskier said, picking up another fancy embroidered cushion to wipe away Geralt's tears and snot. Geralt batted it away. "Careful. It's addictive." 

"Of course it fucking is. It's all hormonal." 

" _ Don't _ rationalise this as  _ just hormones _ ," Jaskier said quickly, leaning back to give Geralt enough space to breathe. The man looked more lax than Jaskier had ever seen him, even in the bath - his face was red, his eyes were drooping, his eyebrows curving upwards without any real strain or compulsion. It was Jaskier's face after an emotional purge - he recognised it from seeing himself in a mirror after a few bad break ups. "You were angry and sad because you're in a situation you can't control. That's normal! That's fine. It's going to happen again, and when it does, don't just ignore it.  _ Lean _ into it. Let yourself feel it." Geralt was looking out with blank eyes over the valley below them, blue eyes jumping from spot to spot with no direction. "Feel how your heart races. How your palms itch with sweat. When the humours of the body start getting out of balance, feel the headrush and-"

"The clouds," Geralt said, shutting Jaskier up. "There aren't any." 

Jaskier frowned. "Stop avoiding it. That's unhealthy. Listen, there's nothing unmanly about opening up to your dearest friend about what troubles you-"

"There should be clouds," Geralt said, instead of doing the sensible thing and talking about his feelings. "There have been two days of sun. In an inland valley like this, there should be a thunderstorm now." 

"Oh. Fine. Let's talk about the blessed weather," Jaskier snapped, raising his hands in defeat. "Since you're the expert here, I suppose, on the cycles of rain and sunshine and thunderstorms. Sometimes it's sunny for more than two days, Geralt, did you consider that?" 

Geralt stood up and stalked over to a table. He pulled open drawers at random, taking out bits of parchment and writing, before turning to the books. Jaskier, curious despite himself, came to watch as he opened them all and then threw them away. 

"What are you looking for?" 

"Journal," Geralt said, ducking down to pull out a fat stack of notebooks. "Looking for weather entries." 

There was a quiet knock, and the boy was back at the door, still looking anxious, with a big glass of water in his hands. 

"My uncle told me to tell people who snooped around his desk without his permission that one of the drawers will curse you into having permanent genital warts," he said, and both Geralt and Jaskier took a large step back from the desk. "Why are you looking through his books?" 

"Need his weather records," Geralt said, "his daily entries, any recordings of weather-" 

"Why?" Jaskier and the boy said in unison, and Geralt made a face like he'd eaten an over-ripe fig and regretted it. 

"Because there should be thunderstorms outside soon, and there aren't."

* * *

The air was dense and hot as they rode Roach back from the tower. Well, Jaskier rode - Geralt walked beside her to save her from carrying too much weight for one day. 

He tried not to feel smug about it, but it was rather satisfying being the one trotting along while his companion trudged aside. See how he liked it. Having to constantly keep up. 

It was still gloriously sunny, the insects buzzing around them. A lazy bee came and investigated Jaskier's white hair, but soon tumbled away, finding no flowers there. It was almost deafeningly loud as it got close, and Jaskier swore he could smell the yellow pollen on its hind legs, the strong, cloying smell of honeysuckle and summer. 

Still no clouds. 

"Alright, I admit," Jaskier said in the quiet air. "It is all a bit weird. You could excuse this kind of thing as a heatwave, but every year? Nowhere has that kind of weather."

Geralt was keeping pace easily, though sometimes flushes of red would randomly mottle his cheeks. At first Jaskier had been worried he was overexerting himself, but it didn't come with any panting or sweating. If Jaskier were to make an educated guess, he would think Geralt looked embarrassed. "Not just heat," he said. "Rain. The same days every year. Always with plenty of warning." 

"Why hasn't anyone noticed? Do you think it's a strange quirk of the geology? Why, I heard a theory that there is a place where it rains every single day except for one, which is always the same day. And that there are places where it never rains, never at all, except for one day, when the ocean deluges itself on the land and replenishes it-" 

"Someone did notice," Geralt interrupted. "The wizard. He was keeping track." 

"And the villagers drove him away because they thought he murdered the couple." Jaskier hummed. "Do you think he did?" 

"Hard to say. I don't think so. Otherwise, the bodies wouldn't be in the old woman's cottage." 

"So... who did?" Jaskier shuddered. "That  _ thing _ ? From last night?" 

"Maybe."

"Why?" 

Geralt didn't reply yet. In the quiet, Jaskier heard something strange - the high pitched slide of metal on something solid, from just along the road they were walking down. He came to a halt, but Geralt kept walking:

"Geralt," he hissed, and the man turned and looked at him. "What do swords sound like?" 

Geralt's eyes narrowed, but before he could reply, a hooded figure jumped onto the path holding a knife. It looked old, but still wicked sharp. With a push, they had barrelled into Geralt and held the sword up to his throat, pulling him into a tight hold. 

"That's enough," a man's voice rang out, clear as day. The buzzing noise of the insects grew stronger in Jaskier's ears. "Not a step further." 

Geralt tensed. Jaskier understood then why Geralt had dismissed him that first day they met. That body looked so fragile suddenly. Wiry, yes, and with good leg muscles if Jaskier did say so himself, but that pale neck which he so carefully shaved looked so paper thin and fragile. 

"Don't hurt him," Jaskier said quickly, the hairs on the back of his hands standing up. His body was doing something he didn't understand, something that felt like hackles raising in the back of his mind. "Hurt him and I'll cut your dick off." 

Geralt rolled his eyes despite the fact they were wide enough that Jaskier could see the whites of them even from his distance. The figure jerked the knife. 

"Leave the valley or I'll kill him." 

"Why?" Jaskier tried to look calm. It was easy, because he felt calm. There had been a momentary shudder of adrenaline, but then he had concentrated, and now he felt... calm, again. Like he had in the bar. The cold, calm, rational anger that felt like a slow glide into a pool. 

"Shut up and leave. I'll slit his throat. I've done it before."

"You harm him and I'll track you down for the rest of your life, which won't be very long," Jaskier said, conversationally. He lifted his head in the way he had once seen Geralt do unconsciously, which he knew showed off his golden eyes. "I'm a witcher. It'll be easy." 

"Shut up," Geralt said, which got him another jostle from the stranger. " _ Easy _ ." 

Now he could hear the heartbeats, both loud and fast. Now he could practically smell the nervous sweat as both humans in front of him kicked into fight or flight properly. The trouble was that he had absolutely no idea what to do - jump off Roach and run in swinging? Try and fire Geralt's crossbow? Both of those things left too much time for the man to slit Geralt's throat. 

"Fine, we'll go," Jaskier said. "At least tell us why we're being kicked out." 

"Get off your horse," the man said. "Now." 

Jaskier slid off the horse. The man's hands weren't trembling. That was probably a bad sign. Under the shadow of the hood, he could see a face, and he noted it with detached interest - Cezary's wife, Marie, who had body swapped and become the husband instead. The first couple. 

"You don't want people to know the cure," he said suddenly. This mind was astounding. It was fast and focused, everything slotting into place without the distraction of unnecessary information. "You've been following us, and you know we know. You don't want us to tell anyone." 

"If you don't leave-" 

Jaskier drew a sword from his back. He had no idea if it was the silver or the steel one, since he was too busy staring Marie in the eye. It didn't matter. He barely noticed Geralt's eyes widening, his head shaking minutely. 

"You've said," he said. "Try it, and I'll cut you in half before you can draw blood." 

Marie's breaths drew quicker and quicker, and then, suddenly, halted. Jaskier tensed. It had been an empty bluff. This body was new and terrifying. He had no idea how to get over there and save Geralt. If his throat really did get slit - if he died-

Gerslt did something complicated, and with a flurry of fabric, suddenly Marie's arm was twisted at an odd angle, and Geralt was pressed to Marie's side. Both of their hands were clasped over the knife, which shook dangerously between them. They both grunted with exertion, trying to wrestle it out of the others grasp. 

Hoping he looked braver than he felt, Jaskier ran forward, waving the sword around wildly and yelling. Marie's eyes slid sideways to see him approaching, and with a gasp, they let go of the knife and immediately danced backwards as Geralt made it swipe through the air. Jaskier brought the sword down, but he wasn't practiced, and Marie easily dodged. With only a brief backwards look, they ran back into the woods. 

"Do I follow?" Jaskier said, body feeling ready to chase, but Geralt just gasped and let go of the knife. Immediately, he was by Geralt's side, pulling his jaw up to examine his neck - with a relieved sigh, he saw there was only the thinnest of cuts, like a paper cut, where the knife had once been. 

"You're body is safe," Geralt gasped, and Jaskier let go of his jaw to hold his shoulders. 

"I'm not worried about the body, I'm worried about you. Do I chase or not?" 

Geralt seemed stressed, his eyes screwing up and his brows scrunching together. He took a moment to think, a moment that Jaskier used to look around and see if Marie had somehow found a second knife and was on their way to finish the job. 

"No, not yet," Geralt finally said, voice trembling, and the stench of fear hit Jaskier like a punch to the gut. "You... you idiot." 

Jaskier blinked. "What? What did I do?" 

"Don't stare people in the eye when you fight. Look at their hands or their stance. Eyes tell you nothing you don't already know." Geralt was coming back to himself, and he sounded absolutely pissed, which Jaskier didn't think was fair. "Don't taunt someone with a knife, either. It's - it's dangerous - when you made me try and disarm someone at my throat -"

"You made it look easy."

"Easy but dangerous! Never get into close quarters combat with someone with a knife!"

"But I've seen you do it before!"

"That was different!" Geralt jabbed his sternum with a finger, mouth flying spittle everywhere. "That was when I was in a body that can take a few cuts! This body can't! I  _ can't risk _ you getting stabbed!" He pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away, face still scrunched up. Jaskier reached out and slowly rubbed his shoulder, and he got pushed away - but he had always been too stubborn for his own good, and he persisted. 

"You got scared," he said, and Geralt nodded. "You panicked." 

"I feel angry." 

"Things always get a little bit confused in the heat of the moment. Come on, be angry at me. It's alright." 

"No! Fuck off. Never, ever put me in a situation like that again. If someone with a knife offers you an exit without fighting, take it." 

Jaskier nodded, though he wasn't sure it was advice he could follow. Seeing Geralt in danger had always inspired the most reckless parts of him into action, even tempered by the witcher's pedigree. "Come on. Let's go give everyone the good news." 

* * *

The ride back was tense. Jaskier startled at every new noise, and Geralt was still breathing heavily as he walked beside them. The sun now seemed too hot and too honest, casting them both into awful contrast. And, underneath that, there was the tension of the cure. 

The truth. Jaskier was trying to work out what it meant. Was there some deep secret lie that Geralt had been hiding from him? Had Jaskier been lying about something? No, surely not. He couldn't think of any. What could the answer be? 

He wanted to say something and ask. Wanted to open his mouth and say, Geralt my lovely pal and dearest friend, what have you been lying to me about recently? But that was ridiculous. Geralt couldn't be hiding something huge. 

Perhaps it was small. Perhaps it was an insignificant small truth that just needed to be mined out of him bit by bit. 

And the truth for him - well, what was it? He had no secrets from Geralt. Surely the witcher knew Jaskier enough that saying any truths out loud was a mere formality. Then, perhaps, was it about the depth of his fondness for Geralt? That was something he didn’t say very often. 

It was The Thing They Didn’t Talk About. The way Jaskier followed and followed, like a dog on a leash. The tender way he washed Geralt. The aching in the darkest corners of his songs, and the biting loyalty. They both knew it was there - didn’t they? - but, for many reasons, they didn’t bring it to light very often. 

Perhaps it was time to start. After all, a curse was a curse. 

"I think you're a very handsome man," Jaskier said out loud, testing it out. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow from down beside him. "Because I'm wearing you?" 

"No you - no, I mean you when you're you. This body. The one I'm wearing." He shook his head. "I think it's very handsome."

"Are you testing out your lines on me?" 

"No! Geralt, I'm trying to tell you truths to get us to switch back." 

Geralt went silent. Jaskier looked at him: he turned his face away. 

"Did I offend you?"

"No."

"Good. Let's see, another truth. Ah, I know - I've seen your dick." 

"That's a weird truth. Of course you've seen it. You bathe me." 

"Well, I don't know, I'm having a hard time thinking of things that you don't already know." 

"I didn't know..."

"What? That I'd seen you naked?" 

"No, it's nothing." 

There was a moment of quiet. Jaskier hummed to himself: "You're supposed to tell me a truth now."

"I don't lie to you." 

"Now  _ that's _ a lie! It's alright, Geralt, I don't usually begrudge you your secrets." Mostly a truth. "These are exceptional circumstances. I know, tell me what you truthfully think about my music."

"It's fine."

"Fine! Fine, he says, while my songs wander the continent, my immortal daughters, collecting accolades and awards wherever they go. Fine indeed." This was an old argument by now. Jaskier was speaking playfully, half expecting Geralt to back out of the conversation or shut him up with one of those surprisingly quick-witted comebacks. "We haven't switched, so I must assume that you either love my music and think it the greatest thing since the invention of sex, or you despise it and feel it like nails raking down your brain." 

Geralt snorted. "I don't hate it, but I don't love it that much." 

"High praise indeed!" 

There was a short silence. Geralt was watching Jaskier, his familiar blue eyes now blank and calm, penetrating in a way Jaskier was sure he'd never achieve himself. "You're a talented composer," Geralt said, and Jaskier nearly fell off Roach. "I like your songs - some of them. The less popular ones, and not the ones about-" he snorted "- fishmonger's daughters." 

Jaskier grinned from ear to ear, overjoyed. "Geralt! You old scoundrel! Which do you like, then? The Stars Above the Path? Toss a Coin? The Lone Wolf-?"

Geralt looked away again, turning his face from view. Jaskier was certain there was a smile there. 

"Don't go silent on me now! Either confess, or I'll make Roach bite you!" 

And, suddenly, something utterly shocking: a cackle of laughter from Geralt's mouth, utterly alien and unfamiliar. Jaskier startled so much that Roach stuttered in her steps and gave an annoyed whinny. It faded as soon as it came. 

"It was involuntary," Geralt growled immediately, in tones which said  _ don't talk about it or I'll be terribly embarrassed.  _ Jaskier bit his lip. 

"It was-" he replied. "Very good." Very good? Very good? Honestly, what the fuck was he talking about, very good? Starstruck fool, losing the ability to speak, like some kind of fawning maiden. He shook his head. "I shall endeavour to make it happen again! Shall I keep listing truths until I find one that amuses you?" 

"I can't stop you."

"Let's see... ah! I've been secretly feeding Roach sugarlumps every now and then to make her love me. Hm. No, you look annoyed. Oh! Sometimes when you cook you oversalt, and then I get thirsty, so I drink too much water and you get mad at me for having to stop to piss all the time, and I think that's terribly unfair. No? Hm. What else is there..." 

* * *

And then, all of Jaskier's attempts to lighten the atmosphere and cheer up Geralt were for naught. As they came to the fences that surrounded the village, they were greeted by the alderwoman and what looked like the whole population of the damn place, all looking unwelcoming. 

"You're no longer welcome here," the alderwoman said, pointing at Jaskier. "Leave, afore we chase you out." 

By her side was the mother from earlier, the one Jaskier had scared. Way back in the crowd, Marie held Cezary's hand, and stared them down defiantly. 

"But we know the cure," Jaskier said, puzzled. "We haven't done anything-"

"Nothing that wizard tells you is good for us," the alderwoman said. "We welcomed you in. Gave you shelter while you promised to help, and now you mean to harm us with enchantments and plots." 

"What are you talking about?" Jaskier looked at Geralt - but he was already turned around, tugging on Roach futilely. "We went to the wizard to find a cure for you, not to enchant you-"

"Ay, cure us like that young couple, hm? Out, witchman." 

"Terrorised my daughter!" the woman said. "Nearly killed her!" 

"Should never have let a monster from beyond the valley stay here."

"Tore my door off its hinges like a beast!"

"Pinched my lady's bottom! Who knows what would have happened if it got its filthy hands on her!' 

Geralt was looking beyond the mob, past the pitchforks and the old family swords and the glinting eyes, to where Anan the blacksmith was leaning against a wall. She nodded at him, and he nodded back. This was a place that didn't want help. He wasn't going to be able to fix generations of mistrust and village politics. 

"Let's go," he said, and slapped Roach. She started trotting, obeying the familiar feeling - the same slap he used to get her to hide when he was about to fight a monster. 

"It's the truth!" Jaskier yelled, even as Roach backed away and started carrying him down the road. "The truth is the cure! Tell each other the truth!" 

Some people covered their ears, but most heard, and Jaskier could see puzzled expressions as people thought over his words. 

"Shut up, mutant!" someone yelled - was it Marie? Was it the mother? It didn't matter. They were soon around a bend and away, Geralt by his side, the sounds of yelling and insults fading back into the buzz of insects and the rustling of leaves in the wind. 

Jaskier tightened his hands around Roach’s reins once, and then relaxed them. He was angry, yes, and it felt like a low fire in his stomach. Like frustration. 

Geralt swore, and it sounded like a thousand forests bursting into flame. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T look for plotholes. because i'm perfect and i;ve never holed a plot in my life


	10. Ten Thousand Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for being so patient during this hiatus! life hit me immensely hard, but i made it through relatively unscathed. i dearly hope you're all safe and stable and able to have some time to yourself to recover. these are hard times. i love you all. 
> 
> nothing much happens in this chapter. it's extremely emotional. 
> 
> the alternative title to this fic is "local Witcher accidentally reveals crippling body dysmorphia"

"I just don't understand it." 

Jaskier was sitting by the fire, staring up at the multitude of stars. It was utterly beautiful. He was used to seeing the constellations whenever he roamed away from the light pollution of the cities and their lamps and fires, but with Geralt's eyes, the sky was glowing with light. The Seven Sisters, usually so faint that they were ghosts at the corners of Jaskier's eyes, were bright enough that Jaskier could count each individual star in the cluster. He swore there were constellations there that he had never heard of before. 

"I'll never understand it," he continued. "How people look at you and see a threat."

Geralt was itching. All over. He couldn't understand it. One moment he felt like he was being plunged into a deep pool of acid, and the next, it was like there were armies of ants under his skin, marching relentlessly and making him twist his fingers into his hands roughly just to get the feeling out. It got worse when he looked down at himself in the firelight, looking at Jaskier's slim legs, his delicate ankles, the soft and worn skin on his hands. 

The fire crackled. Geralt whittled away at a stick to make a spit. Jaskier continued to talk. 

"Brainwashed cannibal villagers who don't appreciate a blessing when it drops in their lap. They deserve to be stuck in each other."

"Some of them will work it out. You yelled the answer at them for free."

"Some answer!  _ The truth _ . I hope it works for them. As for us, I cannot wait to find someone competent to break this curse."

Geralt looked over at Jaskier and swallowed, flexing his hands once more,  _ hard _ . The fire in him had started... he wasn't sure exactly when, but it was probably around the time that Jaskier had held him while he cried. It was a mortifying experience. To suddenly let loose tears like a child, out of control of his own body, and in front of Jaskier - it was utterly ridiculous. But Jaskier held him close, knowing exactly what to do. It had been alien to be surrounded by warmth and strength. Jaskier had been a physical shield between him and the rest of the world. He'd never felt anything like it. 

And then Jaskier had just said, out of nowhere, that he thought Geralt's body was handsome. This wasn't necessarily a weird thing for Jaskier to say - his songs were flattering, though Geralt tried not to listen, and he had peppered in compliments to Geralt many many times in the past. 

What was new was the reaction. The rush of blood to Geralt's face and chest. The sparking tingles down his arms and the pit of his stomach. What felt like a balloon growing in his chest, filling him from the inside and pushing all air out. 

If he was in his own body, his real body, he could methodically test what caused such a reaction and deal with it. 

But this was Jaskier's body. It was an element of chaos, and it introduced variables that Geralt couldn't isolate from the general background chatter of Jaskier's uncontrollable emotions. 

How did the man survive like this? How could any human live like this, slaves to the upward thrust of happiness and the inevitable sink into despair? And controlling these emotions was such hard work, such constant vigilance, a mental balancing act between the  _ conscious _ and the moaning, writhing  _ subconscious _ that begged to be given free rein: he was exhausted, utterly exhausted. 

Jaskier had a whole lifetime's worth of experience dealing with the dizzying swings in mood he was experiencing, but for Geralt, it was something he'd never really dealt with. 

Echoes of emotions like this reminded him of a time long gone.

Jaskier was still starry eyed in Geralt’s body, head snapping about randomly as he heard some noise too quiet for Geralt’s now muffled ears, or when some hardly visible thing caught his attention. He wasn’t looking at Geralt at all. Geralt didn’t understand why he was noticing that - why he was suddenly jealous of every noise and every sight, why he glared at the stars that he couldn’t fucking see. Without even thinking about it, he threw a stone into the fire. It landed with a huge blow of sparks and a loud pop. 

Jaskier’s head swivelled to land on it immediately, mouth agape. His pupils were dilated huge, and he winced as the fire clearly burned a hole in his retinas because of that. 

“What the - oh. It was just the fire. Everything is so much more startling like this...”

Geralt grumbled, because he hadn’t meant to do that. His body acted on its own, following an impulse. What kind of curse was this? Was Jaskier constantly fighting off the subconscious urges of his brain to just go ahead and do something stupid? Actually, now he thought about it, that explained so much about Jaskier. 

Jaskier stared at the fire. Geralt still felt that hot pit of something bitter in his stomach. 

“Dandelion,” he said, and then closed his eyes briefly. Another impulsive action. Jaskier still looked at him anyway, and it was almost too rich how the curling badness swirled into gold. He didn’t say anything else, because this stupid brain hadn’t actually thought that far ahead. 

Jaskier watched him patiently. “... what?”

Geralt didn’t answer. He looked Jaskier in the eye - in his own mutated eyes - and had to look away. Jaskier tilted his head like a dog, and then smiled in a way which was entirely too knowing. 

“Are you bored? I hadn’t even thought of that - Geralt, how marvellous it is that you can sit here and be so endlessly entertained by nothing at all, it’s quite the novelty - but of course, you must be dying for something to do with your hands.” He thought for a moment while Geralt slowly decomposed at how well Jaskier had read him. A deep knowledge of the self, then. What a rare thing. “Ah, I know! Go get the lute. I’ll give you some lessons.”

A part of Geralt rioted at the idea of standing up, yet he did so anyway, because this was an unbelievably subtle way of getting all of Jaskier’s attention focused on him. He reappeared with the precious lute, holding it awkwardly. Jaskier patted the ground beside him. 

“Come sit.”

“You know that I’m not exactly as trained in rhythm and melody as you, bard.”

“I promise you Geralt, ninety percent of learning an instrument is muscle memory. I’ve put my ten thousand hours in, and now you get to reap the benefits. Come sit.”

And so Geralt sat, cross legged, lute in his lap, as Jaskier deftly moved his hands for him into the proper positions. There was no need really. The position felt strangely natural, like shifting position in a comfortable chair into the grooves that the previous owner had left there. Once more his strumming hand curled up over the strings, his thumb tucking under his fingers, while his left hand automatically stretched out into an unnatural pose over the frets. 

“Remarkable,” Jaskier laughed. “You look like a born musician. Now, let’s see... let me teach you.”

He leaned forward. Geralt leaned back, heart rate spiking. Jaskier’s body wasn’t all that shorter than Geralt’s, and yet when the great hulking body leaned into Geralt’s space, he felt like he was being eclipsed by a boulder. This human body reacted to it with a rabbit-fast heart rate and sweat on its palms, of all places. It was untenable. 

Jaskier slowly moved his slim fingers to the right position over the strings, and then strummed them gently with his other hand. His face - Geralt’s face, scarred and broad - looked down in total concentration at the strings. He was murmuring something about chords and runs and frets, but Geralt wasn’t listening. 

“You play it,” he blurted out suddenly, thrusting the instrument forward. “As you say, you put your ten thousand hours in.”

Jaskier took it cautiously. How Geralt hated those fat fingers curling around the delicate wood, hanging uselessly by the strings. Jaskier pulled the lute to his chest. His expression didn’t change much, but it lost some of the pleasantness it had held before. Cautiously, he pulled the instrument to his chest, and stared hard at the frets. When he played a chord, the strings buzzed, and Jaskier grimaced. 

“Feels like I’m wearing thick gloves. I can barely remember where the strings are, and it hurts to press down enough to get a proper sound... but I’m sure that with time, I will...”

He trailed off. Geralt’s heart rate did not slow down. This feeling, whatever it was, was clawing its way up his throat. 

“It won’t be permanent,” he said again, and Jaskier shook his head like a dog shaking off water. 

“Right! As for now... hmm, let’s see. Something simple.”

Watching Jaskier play the lute in Geralt’s body was something to behold. He would play a chord with confidence, and then suddenly lose that confidence as his fingers strayed from their positions, the notes coming out frazzled and tuneless. It took a while until Jaskier had re-learned how to play a simple melody, his expression mildly pained the whole time. 

In the end, he settled on a very simple plucking melody which didn’t require too much hand eye coordination. Geralt listened and watched, controlling the itch, the urge, to grab and hold. The lute, Jaskier, he wasn’t sure which. 

When Jaskier’s mouth opened, it was to sing in Geralt’s voice. 

“She said, I’m the herald of what’s yet to come, 

The swift and the dark that you cannot outrun, 

I’ll claim every man and his every loved one, 

Under the banner of the black meadow sun...”

It sounded so wrong. Didn’t Jaskier hear himself? The deep baritone, tense and threatening, sounding like a lowing animal. It was all wrong. It should have been Jaskier’s pleasing tenor, Jaskier’s nimble fingers flying along the strings, Jaskier’s soft brown hair ducked down over the body of the lute as he worked out some complicated tune, not this freakish brute looking even more freakish with a delicate instrument in his hands. It was all wrong, all so horribly wrong. Geralt felt the rage that he had been holding back spill out of him. He felt like he was exploding. 

“Enough,” he said, and then, “enough! No more! It sounds sick, it sounds wrong. It’s grating on me.” 

He pulled the lute away from Jaskier’s unresisting hands and tossed it behind him with a tuneless bang. Jaskier made a slight noise of discontent, which only annoyed Geralt more somehow. 

“Stop singing in my fucking voice. Stop - stop  _ forcing  _ it, flattering me and pretending it sounds fine - it demeans me. It demeans  _ you _ . Just be fucking  _ honest  _ for once in your life and admit that this is one thing you’ll never convince anyone is beautiful!”

“I think it is beautiful,” Jaskier said dumbly, and this body was dangerous. This body was so supremely dangerous, because never had Geralt felt such anger and despair well up in him over a simple compliment. They were foreign to him. 

“The more you lie to me, the longer we’re stuck like this, so for the dignity of both of us. For the-”

He choked off, too angry for words. When he was in his body, the anger felt cold and calculating, but this was an inferno. This was a boiling fire that never put itself out. This was hell. 

“Why,” he said finally, “why am I so furious?”

Jaskier sat in silence. He looked... no, not bored, but concerned. Calm. Geralt knew he wasn’t. “You don’t like it when I compliment you?”

“I don’t like it when you lie,” he spat, desperately trying to rein himself in and failing. “Saying I’m handsome, I’m beautiful, that my voice is nice, that I’m good - what’s the point, Jaskier? Who are you trying to impress when I’m your only audience? Which man are you describing when you talk about me like that?”

Jaskier’s mouth opened and closed. His expression shifted as he talked. “How long have you felt like this?”

Geralt thought about it. He thought back to that first day in Posada, when Jaskier had walked on ahead with that lute, and the lies pouring out of his mouth as he sang that first stupid accursed song. How had he felt? It was muted. At the time he had been mildly annoyed, frustrated maybe. It had been a ghost of this feeling. Similar but different. 

“The beginning,” he growled. 

Jaskier stared at him. Geralt stared back, sneering. 

"Geralt..." Jaskier said quietly. "Please tell me you don't believe that I've been lying for the whole sorry length of our friendship."

Geralt looked away, which was answer enough. He ignored the wounded noise that Jaskier made. 

"You know I'm not that good an actor. I couldn't have spent this whole time pretending that I admire you so very much."

"If not pretending," Geralt said, "then flattering or aggrandising. That, or you have a peculiar fetish for freaks."

Jaskier moved closer, his hands reaching out across the ground to hold Geralt's - but he yanked them away out of reach with a huff. "You wound me," Jaskier said quietly, almost too quiet to hear. "You wound me every time you talk of yourself like that. Because it's the ultimate insult, to make a mockery of a man's work. To look at his heart laid bare and call him a liar to his face. I can barely articulate... Geralt, you have no idea how awful it is to be accused of falsehood when I've always been frighteningly honest around you." 

He drew back. His voice was calm, and he turned to poke the fire with a long stick, his shoulders tense like he was carrying all of Roach's saddlebags. 

Geralt's mind was wheeling. Honest? That made him want to burst out laughing and start throwing punches all over again. What was honest about the sickeningly romantic picture painted by Jaskier's ballads about him? What was honest about calling him some sword swinging hero on a mission to save humanity? He was nothing like that. By committing to the lies, Jaskier was making a mockery of them both, not the other way round. 

The only way Jaskier could swear he was being honest would be if he was truly deluded enough to actually believe the tripe in his songs. And that was - well, that was a bold thought, because too many songs waxed lyrical about Geralt's starlight hair and noble brow, and golden eyes and fine shoulders and sweet gods, the list never ended of things that Jaskier seemed to be able to compliment. 

"We are never swapping back," Jaskier announced in a sulk voice, "if every time I try to tell you the bloody truth, you start accusing me of lying."

And suddenly, Geralt just felt tired. He didn't know what the truth was anymore. He didn't trust Jaskier to know either - and the anger started fading, dull and sore like a bruise, into gentle sadness. This was new. He relaxed into it. 

"Then what is the truth?" he said quietly. Jaskier stiffened, before hiding it with a vague wave of his hand. 

"You know what the truth is. You're my friend and I like you very much. I think you're handsome and brave. And... well, I admire you."

This stupid human body blushed like a teenager at the slightest praise. Geralt firmly tried to tell himself to calm down and be angry again - but it didn't work. "That can't be-"

"No doubting! I speak only the honest truth. Let Melitele strike my cock with a pestilence so that it falls off and dies if I am lying."

"Oi. That's my cock you're swearing on."

"Well then, that's just more motivation to tell the truth. Wouldn't want to lose such a beautiful thing from the world."

Geralt threw a pebble at Jaskier, who dodged with a grin. 

"You must be feeling a little better if we're back to casual violence and talk of cocks. I'm glad."

Geralt just looked away, face still hot and flushed, and threw another stone onto the fire. Jaskier sighed and started setting up his bedroll, humming a tune to himself as he worked. 

Geralt didn't feel better. It still felt like there was something burning in him, like rage but more pleasant, sending shivers down his arms and making his heart pound. 

Perhaps it was just that he'd been sitting too close to the fire for too long. Perhaps it would go away after a good night's sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey thanks to Jadelyn for the fantastic meme which I am wholesale stealing to put here 
> 
> OH MY GOD ITS SO BIG IM SORRY IDK HOW TO MAKE IT SMALLER oh well


End file.
